


For Show or Nothing

by whyyesitscar



Series: Lady Day [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 85,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana is living in L.A. with Brittany. She loves it, but she wants more. Quinn and Rachel, on the brink of college graduation and feeling lost, team up to write a musical based on Billie Holiday's life. They want Santana for the lead, but she's reluctant to leave Brittany, who is looking for change of her own--and it doesn't include musical theater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Santana

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant until 3x22 except 1) Brittany graduated with the rest of the seniors; 2) Quinn kept Beth, and subsequently; 3) Quinn and Puck stayed together. Future-fic, set in 2016 and continuing onward.

“I don’t know, Santana. There are some shows going on right now that I’m fairly certain I could land, but I don’t really connect to any of them. I want my first role to be something I believe in because I know it’s not going to be anything profitable or critically acclaimed. I just feel like there’s something I’m missing. I graduate in a month and I don’t have any plans. Do you know how strange that is, for _me_ not to have plans?”

“Babe, can you get me some water?”

“What?”

Santana turns back to the computer screen and makes sure Rachel can see her before she rolls her eyes. “Not you, Berry.” Brittany walks back in the room and sits next to Santana, positioning herself so she can be seen in the little Skype box. She waves at Rachel and hands Santana a glass of water, filled only three-quarters of the way because Santana has a tendency to spill.

Santana gives her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Britt.”

“Can we please get back to the issue at hand?” Rachel implores.

“Rachel, is there ever a time in your life when everything is _not_ about you?”

Rachel frowns. She looks like she might actually cry and Santana feels bad because she didn’t mean it like that at all. Usually she can tease Rachel, like she used to but without any real malice behind it, and it eases the tension. They can laugh it off because they both know it’s not sincere and it makes for a nice transition into more serious conversation. But today, Rachel looks too perturbed to get the joke.

“While I admit that I can be self-involved at times, this is a very real personal crisis, Santana.  I know you’re trying to make me feel better but I’d really just like some advice this time.”

(Whenever Rachel scolds her, Santana always feels like she’s been lectured by her mother).

“Sorry,” Santana mumbles. She means it, but she still hates apologizing. “I dunno, Rach, this is Brittany’s territory. You want advice from me, you’re going to get tough love.”

Rachel flicks her gaze to the right, her eyes pleading with Brittany to say the magic words that will fix everything. The problem is that this isn’t something that can be fixed with _“You should apologize”_ or _“Call in the morning when you’ve gotten some sleep.”_ This is a huge thing. This is Rachel Berry not being satisfied with theater. This is foundation-shaking shit.

So Santana isn’t surprised when Brittany stalls, tapping her finger on the desk. “Have you thought about…taking a break?” she suggests softly.

Rachel furrows her brows. “What, from school? I’ve only got a month left; it seems a little late to be doing that.”

“No,” Brittany says, shaking her head. “Not from school. Taking a break…from theater.” Rachel looks positively scandalized, so Brittany starts talking fast. Santana is pretty sure she’s trying to get everything out before Rachel explodes and she loses her chance to voice her opinion. “Well, like, you could find a cool little shop or wherever to work at for a year or something and just detox. You know how sometimes you sit on a swing and spin until the chains get all tangled and that’s when you let go? I think that’s what you need to do.”

Santana smiles because that’s the perfect way to describe how Rachel Berry lives from day to day. She twists too many things into her days, too many days into her weeks, and she lets it get so tight that the only result is an explosion. When she and Brittany were still living in New York, the explosions tended to coincide with finals. They all learned to avoid each other because a spastic theater major, a too-stressed pre-law student, and an exhausted dancer don’t really mix well. They mix catastrophically, if Santana is really being honest about it.

Brittany’s advice is good on paper. She knows it is; it’s exactly what Brittany did. It’s not that dance school wasn’t right for her. It’s just that it started being work, and it was all about technique and structure and perfection, and Brittany’s always been about feeling. It isn’t that Brittany doesn’t take dance seriously. She studies moves and practices them until she doesn’t have to think about them anymore. But she’s not about placing her feet in the exact right way; she doesn’t care if she does a little more than a half-turn or if her plié is kind of off-balance. Whenever Santana watches her dance, she’s struck by the fluidity of Brittany’s body, the way that it seems like her bones are quicksilver and her arms leave glittering echoes of rainbows. Brittany is a natural dancer and she doesn’t always take to the prescribed methods of doing things. Most of her teachers, the best ones at least, recognized that even though Brittany might not follow the same path as the rest of the students, she’d eventually get to the same place. Just in a special way, the kind of way that teachers aren’t comfortable with because it works and there’s nothing wrong with it except for it’s not the way they’ve been teaching it. Their instinct is to call it wrong because it’s not traditional, but there’s always a moment of hesitation when they realize that Brittany’s way is usually better. Brittany makes dance teachers uncomfortable because she always knows something that they don’t. Something they won’t ever know.

So she’s absolutely the kind of person who can accept drastic changes at the drop of a hat. She’s the kind of person who can call up her parents two months before the end of the school year and tell them that she’s really sorry to have wasted their money, and she really did love being at Tisch, but her modern teacher said she has a friend out in LA who’s looking for a dance instructor for her school, and it’s okay that they might not agree, but she’s going to take it. She’s already filled out the paperwork and everything and she just wanted to let them know. And Brittany’s parents are the kind of people who will take a week to think it over, let her move there with Santana, and spend the next six months giving lectures over the phone every night.

(Which is good, because Santana is the kind of person who makes decisions after carefully considering them, and, after a year of applying herself ruthlessly to school and going up against Rachel Berry in off-off-Broadway productions, she’s the kind of person who says, “Fuck that; I’m moving to California”).

“Babe, she can’t do that,” Santana interjects. Out of the corner of her eye, Santana sees relief drop into Rachel’s cheeks.

“Why not?”

“Because she’s not that kind of person,” Santana shrugs simply.

And she isn’t. Rachel isn’t the kind of person who can change course on a whim. She’s got plans and ambitions and even if those aren’t concrete, she knows how to get started in the right direction. She’s not the kind of girl who can decide to join the army a week before high school graduation, dump her boyfriend on a train halfway across the country, and set off to Georgia.

(Santana might still be a little bitter on Rachel’s behalf. Santana doesn’t think Finn’s a terrible guy. He just has the tact and common sense of a retarded slug).

No, Rachel is the kind of person whose whims and impulses have to at least be relevant to her career. Santana thinks that makes for a very limiting way of life, but who is she to judge. She’s certainly no stranger to self-imposed limits born out of comfort. She understands the need to have at least some semblance of order, something she can fall back on when people ask if she’s gone crazy. She’s come to realize that being an adult is thirty percent logic and maturity and seventy percent bullshitting your way into convincing other people that you know what you’re doing.

Still, Brittany has a point. Maybe the reason that Rachel’s feeling so lost is because she needs to be shaken up.

For once, when Santana says what she’s thinking, no one cries. “Brittany does have a point, Rachel,” she acquiesces. “I’m not saying go out and take up baking or volunteer at pet shelters or anything. But do something that you’re interested in that isn’t acting.”

“I don’t have anything like that,” Rachel instantly fires back.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever. Look, you took those bullshit screenwriting and set design classes that every theater major takes, right?”

“Yes,” Rachel nods reluctantly, not wanting to acknowledge that Santana might have a point.

“Did you like any of them?”

Rachel slumps her chin on her right hand, dramatically blowing a puff of air up at her bangs. Santana wonders why she isn’t in any shows right now; she’s got all the overacting that Broadway needs.

“Well, I didn’t particularly care for set design. I’m not a hands-on kind of person. And everyone in my screenwriting class told me my characters sounded like robots, which I don’t understand because I use all the same words as my characters did.”

“Well yeah, because you sound like a robot,” Brittany says. She’s not judging or anything. She just says it like it’s a part of her world, like it’s a fact.

“I do not!” Rachel huffs.

“Sometimes you do.”

“Brittany, I think you just don’t have the complete appreciation for—”

Santana lifts a hand to stop Rachel’s rant. “Hold up there, Glinda.”

Rachel pauses and turns her attention to Santana. “Why don’t I get to be Elphaba?” she pouts, and only Rachel Berry would take issue with which Broadway character Santana was using to insult her.

“Because your voice reaches frequencies that only dogs can hear and I could fit you in my pocket. Now shut up and let Auntie Tana tell you how this is gonna go down. Out of all your classes that weren’t acting, were there any that you really liked? And I don’t mean ‘liked’ the way you like history or science or whatever because those don’t count. I mean classes that you really enjoyed because they were different and fun and hard and they always went by too fast.”

“Yes,” Rachel answers immediately, and that’s how Santana knows she’s telling the truth. You don’t have a lot of those kinds of classes in your college career. “My composition class. I wasn’t—well, I wasn’t very good at the composing part, but we did a lot of arranging and mostly we just talked about the intent behind songs and how they mean different things depending on where you place them in the play. I got to talk about music in a way that I hadn’t even really thought about it before. It was kind of like I was learning my feelings as I was saying them.” She shrugs, blushing at her impromptu speech. “It was nice.”

“So do _that_ ,” Santana urges. “Talk to your professors, see if they know anyone who needs, like, an intern or apprentice or page or whatever the fuck you call a composer-in-training. Just because you’ve been dreaming about acting and training for it your whole life doesn’t mean you have to be ready for it right now.”

Rachel’s eyes widen and glisten with tears and she shakes her head fervently. “But my dads—”

Santana scoffs. “Oh, please. Those men will go along with whatever you tell them, provided you give them enough evidence. And I _know_ you’re not above making a PowerPoint to really convince them.”

“But what if—”

“If they object, I’ll explain everything. You know they love me. I seem to recall it used to piss you off a lot,” Santana smirks.

“No, that isn’t what I meant,” Rachel says.

“It’s okay to be scared, Rachel,” Brittany interjects. “It’s okay to be scared, and it’s okay to be wrong, too. It doesn’t mean you can’t go back.”

Santana stops and looks over at Brittany, who just smiles. One of these days she’ll stop being surprised at Brittany’s eerie ability to know exactly what’s wrong with someone. (Until that day, she’ll just keep smiling and blushing and maybe she’ll kiss Brittany senseless).

“Yeah,” she adds dumbly. “What Britt said.” Brittany shoves her shoulder and Santana laughs, lurching forward and hitting the webcam. It makes everything go shaky and Rachel yelps a little in surprise and then they’re all laughing, letting out all the tension and seriousness of the previous conversation. Santana knows they’re done talking about it and Rachel will come to them again if she needs help. And if she doesn’t, Santana will see her in a month.

(Rachel doesn’t know it, but she and Brittany are flying up to New York for her graduation. It’s a week before Quinn’s graduation and it’s completely stretching their budget, but they couldn’t miss it. Santana doesn’t need to go visit Mike or Kurt or anyone else, but there is only one Rachel Berry and only one college she’ll be graduating from. If anyone is going to make graduation a ceremony to remember, it’s Rachel Berry, and Santana wouldn’t miss it for the world).

“Okay, okay,” she says, taking deep sips of her water to calm herself. “Piece of business number two: how are we doing on Quinn’s big surprise?”

Rachel’s head dips out of view and Santana can’t help smiling when she resurfaces with a three-ring binder, color-coded tabs sticking out of the side. “Well, obviously you two are a definite, as am I. Kurt and Blaine have said yes.”

“Sam and Mercedes are definitely in,” Brittany chimes in. “Santana had to promise them free drinks for a night, but they’re coming.” Santana glares at Brittany and kicks her lightly under the desk.

“Excellent.” Rachel makes two checkmarks, the pen swishing loudly on the paper. “I haven’t heard back from anyone else yet, but I’ve booked two nights at a nearby hotel on the assumption that everyone will show up. If they don’t, we just all won’t have to double up.”

“How did you manage to get that many hotel rooms this close to graduation in Chicago?” Santana asks incredulously.

Rachel shrugs. “I booked them months ago.” She blushes at Brittany and Santana’s knowing smiles. “I had a feeling, okay?”

“No,” Santana drawls, “you had a _plan_ , you sneaky little dwarf.” She smiles wider as Rachel’s blush deepens. “Don’t act like you aren’t proud of yourself,” she teases.

There is silence as everyone contemplates what it’ll be like to see everyone again. Santana sees Sam and Mercedes almost every day; their apartments in LA are only a few minutes away from each other. She Skypes with Rachel every week and she keeps in contact with Quinn and Puck. But the others? She doesn’t even know where Mike and Tina are living, and she hasn’t really spoken with Kurt after he and Blaine split two years ago. They’re still friends, but once they stopped being a unit, everything else kind of fizzled out.

“This is a good idea, right?” she asks for the millionth time. “Quinn won’t be mad that we’re springing thirteen people on her completely out of the blue?”

“If I was still in school, I’d love it if the whole glee club showed up to watch me graduate,” Brittany says.

“Yeah, but I mean…do you think the others will be jealous or something? Do you think they’ll be mad that we didn’t pick their graduation ceremonies to show up at?”

“We can only afford to do this once, San.”

Rachel nods in agreement. “And logistically, this is the one that works best. It’s a central location, which means that you guys don’t have to fly across the country and Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury can even drive up.”

“Plus it has to be Quinn,” Brittany adds. “No offense, Rachel,” she says, briefly glancing into the camera, “but you don’t really need, like, mass amounts of support. You’re totally way more than just glee club MVP, you know? And Quinn doesn’t really need it either, but I think she’ll love being reminded that she has it anyway.”

Santana smiles and she can’t stop herself from leaning in to kiss Brittany, murmuring soft “I love yous” against her lips.

“And _that’s_ my cue to leave,” Rachel says loudly. “See you guys next week?”

Santana breaks away from Brittany and nods. “You know we’re here every Tuesday,” she confirms. “And you better think about what I told you. Don’t make me go all Lima Heights.”

Rachel smiles fondly. “That doesn’t work quite as well when I know that you live in the Valley, Santana.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Santana dismisses. “Just think it over.”

Rachel promises that she will and they end the call. Santana leans back in her chair and stretches her back until it cracks, flinching when Brittany pokes her in the stomach.

Brittany giggles and skips her fingers up toward Santana’s collarbone. “When do you have to be at work?”

Santana smiles. “Not for another hour.”

Brittany’s face is getting closer and Santana can smell the remnants of mint chocolate ice cream on her breath. “Score,” Brittany grins playfully, and then Santana sinks into the only place that will always be home.

* * *

 

Forty five minutes later, Santana is fixing her hair on her way to work. She scowls at it in her rearview mirror, fussing and fluffing before reaching around in the backseat. She hasn’t seriously worn a ponytail since high school, so it’s good that she works at a jazz bar. Not only do fedoras hide unruly sex hair, they’re also practically mandatory. And she looks _damn_ good in one.

Things are quiet at Lady Day’s when she walks in. Jay is wiping down the counter, eyeing the guy on the end who manages to make eating bar nuts seem creepy. Santana smiles anyway because nothing calms her down quite like this bar. It’s familiar and uncomplicated. It’s where she wants to be right now because she can just make drinks and listen to music and not think about anything else.

At work, Santana can wave to Jay and know that he’ll smile at her before turning around to inspect the vodka bottles. Like the fact that she’s finally there means he needs to make sure that all their Goose is accounted for, and Santana can roll her eyes because that only happened _one_ time. She can watch the night’s first performer set up her instruments and forget about the Skype call that unsettled her in a way she wasn’t expecting.

Santana is happy with her life. She’s happy that she’s living with Brittany and they’re in California. She’s happy with the friends that have stuck around and the new ones she’s made after two years. She’s happy with her job and really, she can’t think of anything that she immediately needs to change.

And yet.

There is a feeling that’s been lurking under her skin for a few months, made only (unintentionally) worse by Rachel. Santana hasn’t been in a college setting in two years, but she still feels the end-of-year stress, that urgency to do something more—make more plans, develop more ambitions, find more answers. With most of her friends graduating, the feeling is only intensified. Santana wonders whether she really wants to work at a bar for the rest of her life. Lady Day’s is great, don’t get her wrong. It’s not just a bar because Santana gets to help find new talent, and despite what Quinn thinks, Jay knows his shit. Add in the fact that Mercedes uses the space as a practice stage, and they’ve got up-and-coming artists just busting to get a show. Santana is really, really glad to be working where she is. It’s the perfect combination of socializing and entertainment, and she’s learning a lot about the industry. She’s learning that she’d get tired of the bullshit really quick, so she knows that isn’t the more that she wants.

But when she watches people perform at night, she feels a pull, a desire for them to lock eyes with her and invite her on stage. She wants them to coax her up and even if she waves them off at first with charming modesty, she’ll eventually accept and completely kill a song. And maybe a producer will be sitting in the audience, purely by chance, and discover her, and the rest will sort of fall out of her hands and happen to her and she won’t really be able to stop it.

But Santana knows that isn’t going to happen and she doesn’t really want it to. She doesn’t want a life of luck and fortune. She wants to work for success. She wants to control her happiness.

Mostly, Santana is unsettled because she wants something more and she doesn’t think she should. She’s living the kind of life she’d always dreamed about when Brittany was dating Artie and she was screwing around with Puck. She’s well on her way to proposals and babies and an actual house, and to top it all off she’s got the girl of her dreams. She shouldn’t want to find something new because Brittany is so ridiculously happy and she’s completely flourishing at her dance school. Brittany is always smiles and enthusiasm; she’s perfectly content with their life. Santana feels guilty for yearning.

Anyway, she’s glad to be at work because everyone in here is yearning for something. It’s a strange kind of solidarity. You’d think it would make her even more dissatisfied, but it’s an odd comfort. She might feel restless, but she isn’t the only one.

“Hey, something’s up with your speakers.” Tonight’s performer, Ashley, sidles up to the bar and casually drops her elbows on the counter. “Mind taking a look?”

“Two years and I still don’t know shit about that equipment, Ash. Hey, Jay!” she yells, turning in his direction. “Your shitty speakers stopped working again.” He waves a hand in acknowledgement and jogs off to fix them. Santana turns back to Ashley with a smile. “I do, however, know a crapton about alcohol. Want a drink?”

“Sure.” Ashley sits on a bar stool—climbs up it, really; she’s almost Rachel-levels of short—and mirrors Santana’s smile. She brushes her dark brown bangs out of her face. The tips are dyed a deep purple this week, but she changes colors so often that Santana is sure she’ll show up in three days with a completely new look.

“Are you singing any new stuff tonight?” Santana asks as she slides over a rum and coke.

“A few,” Ashley says, taking a sip, “but nothing I’m really in love with. Inspiration has left me.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Santana takes a look around the stage, frowning when she realizes someone is missing. “No Spencer tonight?”

Ashley shakes her head. “Nah, she’s doing a stakeout for some documentary or something.” She winks bitterly. “I told you the inspiration had left.”

Santana laughs sympathetically and absently cleans a glass. “Something tells me you’re overreacting there, champ.”

“Don’t call me ‘champ,’ _sport_.” Ashley swirls the ice in her glass. “I don’t know. Nothing’s wrong exactly. We’re both happy and doing what we love. And we’re happy at home and everything. It’s all great. It’s just _boring_.” She shakes her head. “Not boring, I guess. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Maybe I am overreacting.”

Santana laughs weakly and reminds herself to breathe. Ashley finishes her drink and disappears to the stage and Santana is glad for the distraction of customers.

Because that’s exactly it.

/

(Santana watches Ashley perform and the pull is worse than it usually is. She finds herself making drinks without her usual flair, because she’s coming up with duets that she and Ashley would kill. She’d recruit Sam for the guitar because Ashley just has her acoustic and sometimes you need the sad keening of an electric.

The patrons are irritated because she’s getting slow, but she can’t hear their complaints over the guitars gently weeping in her head.)

* * *

 

It’s almost four in the morning by the time she gets home. She wants nothing more than to collapse into bed, but some jerk spilled tequila on her about two hours ago and she smells like shit. So she makes short work of undressing, letting clothes fall in a trail to the bathroom. She’ll pick them up when she’s finished with her shower. Right now Santana just wants them off. She knows that as soon as that water hits her, she’ll be able to breathe again.

She tries to make it a quick shower because Brittany has to get up in three and a half hours. If Santana had her way about it, she’d stay in there until she could wash away all the alcohol and doubt. Santana’s frustrated with herself because she thought she was past all the doubting bullshit. This isn’t high school; she doesn’t have to worry about what people think about her or whether Brittany will ever be with her. Brittany is with her and hers is the only opinion that Santana really cares about. If anyone else has words to say about, Santana doesn’t hear them. Santana would love a forty five minute shower to work out all her emotional kinks, but she knows Britt gets kind of cranky when she doesn’t get enough sleep, plus there’s a recital coming up and she’s stressing about some of her students.

So instead Santana gets out after fifteen minutes and employs the surefire Sue Sylvester method for dealing with doubt. She forgets it.

She puts her hair into a ponytail because it gets frizzy at the ends if she doesn’t blow it dry. Santana slips an extra-large shirt on, probably left over by Sam. She smiles as she walks into their bedroom. Brittany is tucked off to one side, hugging the pillow that Santana uses. It’s how Santana finds her almost every night, and when she does she quickly takes the place of the pillow. Brittany always snuggles into her and Santana always falls asleep in minutes.

But tonight Santana won’t be comforted by Brittany’s warm, sleepy body. So she rolls her desk chair into the bedroom and sits down, resting her ankles on the edge of the bed closest to Brittany. She can go to sleep when Brittany wakes up, and until then, she’ll think.

She loves the night when it’s quiet like this, when the sky is a dark blue that looks like it’s right out of a kids book. It’s the kind of blue that you only see in art, that magical color that isn’t day or night. This is when Santana feels like the world was made for her. Los Angeles is her city and hers alone when the sky turns this kind of blue. Santana likes the sky like this because it seems to encapsulate her emotions, no matter what she’s feeling. When she was still scared, this sky is what made her leave Brittany’s bed, and when she got braver, it’s what made her stay.

Santana pushes her foot to bump lightly against Brittany’s and she giggles when Brittany instinctively mumbles. She loves watching Brittany sleep. If anyone was made for sleeping, it was Brittany. Her hair always looks elegant; the moon always hits her skin just right; her lips always pout in the cutest way. It’s a comfort to watch Brittany when she sleeps because she never changes. And that’s good, because Santana’s never been real great with change.

Brittany’s always been the impulsive one, the one that makes suggestions so crazy that Santana thinks they might actually be good ideas. Most of the people at McKinley thought that Brittany was Santana’s sidekick, but it was mostly the other way around. Santana just got all the credit because she was louder. But any time they’ve had changes in their life, Brittany has been the one to instigate it.

And that’s what scares Santana, because she’s pretty sure Brittany doesn’t want to change anything right now. But Santana _needs_ to. She needs to talk to Brittany about how she’s feeling and try not to watch as her eyes get sad. Santana hates it when she’s the one who messes things up. It seems like every time they get used to something good, she’s got to throw a wrench in the works. That’s why she hates change; because she can’t seem to stop doing it.

So Santana watches Brittany because the only time she changes is when she gets even more awesome.

That fact is only underscored when Santana wakes up to see Brittany inches away from her face, blowing cool air onto the space between her eyebrows. She chuckles when Santana flinches awake.

“Britt, what are you doing?” Santana mumbles.

“Waking you up so you can go to bed and get some real sleep.”

Santana wipes a bleary hand over her eyes. “You couldn’t have just, I don’t know, picked me up or something?”

“No. This was way more fun. Plus I wanted a ‘good morning’ kiss.”

Santana smiles in spite of her exhaustion and pulls Brittany closer. “I can help with that.” She taps Brittany on the chin, urging her to lean in. Brittany’s lips are soft and she tastes like toothpaste, which probably means that she’s been awake for a while. Santana tastes like ass, which is how she knows Brittany really loves her. Brittany kisses her lazily, without any urge for something more. Santana finds herself again in Brittany’s mouth. This is where everything makes sense.

She laughs when Brittany leans further into her. Something pops under them and Santana feels the chair start to give. She reluctantly pulls away, resting a hand on Brittany’s collarbone.

“Any more and this morning is going to end with us on the floor.”

Brittany’s eyes twinkle playfully. “I wouldn’t say no to that,” she smiles.

“Me either,” Santana laughs, “but you have work and I really am exceptionally tired.”

Brittany nods and stands up. “How come you slept on the chair last night?”

Santana stretches, hiding her sort-of lie in a yawn and a sleepy voice. “Got a little crazy at the bar. Fights and stuff. I was too wired to lie down.”

“Okay. Well, I have a break in between classes right around lunch, if you want to meet me somewhere.” She sits down on the edge of the bed, bending her legs to put on some socks. Santana gets up from her chair and crawls behind her. She extends her legs next to Brittany’s and wraps her arms around Brittany’s torso. She kisses the bit of shoulder that looks like it’s shining from under Brittany’s shirt. Brittany hums and Santana would like nothing more than to pull Brittany back into her and forget about uncertainty and dance classes.

“That sounds great, babe,” she says instead, and she kisses Brittany’s hand when she pulls the sheets over her. Santana can hear the sounds of Brittany milling around by the front door, grabbing her keys, leaving, and then coming back in when she forgets her phone.

Santana smiles and falls asleep as the lock clicks for the second time because there are some things that will never, ever change. 


	2. state of dreaming

The only reason Santana wakes up on time is because Brittany set the alarm on her phone before she left for work. Santana smiles, her cheeks and eyes still puffy from sleep, as she reaches over to turn it off. _Lunch with Brittany!_ it reads with a smiley face. There’s also a text waiting for her, sent three hours ago.

_I know it’s not your favorite kind of eating, but it’ll be fun anyway_.

Santana gets out of bed, touches up her hair, and it’s like she never doubted anything in the first place.

/

Brittany’s waiting at a little French café with one of her fellow dance teachers, Julia, when Santana gets there. She can spot them immediately; Julia’s sleek hair is a dark contrast to Brittany’s glittering blond. Plus, Santana knows it’s them because it looks like Brittany is sitting with a twelve-year-old. Julia makes even Rachel Berry seem mature. And tall.

Julia is talking animatedly, hands looping and curling as she speaks. Brittany is looking off to her side, hair pulled into a ponytail, sunglasses framing her cheekbones. Santana knows she’s listening, which is probably why Julia hasn’t stopped talking. That, or she’s too into whatever story she’s telling.

Santana is supposed to go through the restaurant to get to the outside seating, but she’s never been one for following rules, and she has _always_ been one to jump guard rails. So she sneaks up behind Brittany, fully intending to tickle the spot under her arms that always makes her flinch and giggle.

But Brittany smiles when Santana’s two steps away and she knows she’s been caught.

“You suck,” she smiles. “Can’t I ever sneak up on you?”

“You’re late,” Brittany says in lieu of an answer.

Julia finally stops talking and puzzles at the sudden silence. “Oh, hi Santana!” she says when she refocuses her eyes. “When did you get here?”

Santana hops the guard rail anyway and plops down next to Brittany. “Just now. Had a bit of a lie-in.”

“I’ll say!” Julia scoffs. “I can’t ever sleep past eight o’clock, even on weekends.”

Santana grabs a menu and scans it quickly before putting it back on the table. She knows what she’s getting.

“That’s because you make the Energizer bunny look like he ODed on Xanax.”

Julia cocks her head and flicks her hair a little bit, like she always does when she’s confused. “Thanks?”

Brittany rests a hand on Santana’s thigh and reaches for her water. “Did you sleep well?”

Santana shrugs. “Well enough, I guess. I’ll sleep better once I actually get to bed on time.”

“Santana, you never get to bed before three in the morning.”

“On time for _me,_ ” Santana clarifies. “Anyway, I slept fine,” she repeats, eager to steer the conversation away from her very long night. This is the kind of thing that Brittany always notices, and Santana really doesn’t want her to. She thinks that maybe, if she gets off the topic quick enough, Brittany will be distracted and she might drop the whole thing.

Brittany looks at her a long time before nodding. “Okay,” she says. “Fine is okay. Hopefully it’ll be better tonight.”

(She notices anyway. Santana winces and wonders when she’ll learn that Brittany can’t be tricked when it comes to feelings).

Julia starts gushing about how Lady Gaga is going on tour again and wouldn’t it be great if they could nab spots as the dancers, which is totally possible because her cousin knows a guy who knows the publicist, and Santana takes the opportunity to tune out. Santana orders for all three of them when the waitress gets back and she smiles because she hasn’t ever met two people who completely forget the world when they’re excited quite like Julia and Brittany do. They laugh, nod seriously, spend five straight minutes extoling the work ethic of some choreographer that Santana’s never heard of but who makes the pair of them squeal like giddy teen girls.

This is what Santana’s worried about. The fact that Brittany is so comfortable and happy with what she’s doing. If she’s really being honest about it, Santana knows that any change she’d want to make would include moving, and she doesn’t want to do that to Brittany. Brittany fits in California—she fits with the sun and the beaches and brightly-colored tanktops. Brittany fits with the color of the sand and the sound of the ocean. She fits with the wind and the hills, and Santana fits wherever Brittany is.

(If she’s being really honest about everything, Santana knows that this isn’t just about Brittany. Santana is scared that she’ll fail, that she won’t ever find whatever she’s looking for. It isn’t just about performing or singing because she could do that right here if she really wanted to. There is something bigger that she needs to have, and she’s scared that it isn’t Brittany anymore. Brittany has always been Santana’s ‘something more’. She’s always been the best of everything.

If she’s really being honest, Santana is afraid to admit that maybe that’s changing.

But she’s never done well with fear, so she ignores it).

“…I just think it’s a bad name,” Brittany says. “Who wants to wear a shirt that makes them sweat?”

“But I’ve seen you wear sweatshirts,” Julia counters.

“Well yeah, but not because of what they’re _called_. I’m just saying, I don’t know how sweatshirts ever took off. It’s all about the brand experience and that would not make the consumer have a good one.”

“The brand experience…?”

Santana chuckles at Julia’s confusion. “It’s a psychological thing, Jules. Anyway, Britt, they named sweatshirts like that because they’re designed to promote sweating.” She waves her phone. “All hail Wikipedia.”

Brittany frowns. “Why would you want to sweat more? Sweating’s gross.”

_Not always,_ Santana thinks, and by the delayed twinkle in her eye, Brittany’s just thought of it, too. “People think you lose more weight if you sweat more. They’re idiots,” she shrugs.

“Oh. Okay.” Brittany smiles and digs into her salad, while Julia sits and puzzles over Brittany’s train of thought. Brittany does this thing a lot where she makes a surprisingly aware comment and catches everyone off-guard. (Everyone except for Santana. She’s never surprised because of course Brittany’s intelligent. Why wouldn’t she be?)

“Hey, San,” Brittany says between mouthfuls of lettuce, “I was thinking about Quinn’s graduation.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I was thinking that Rachel’s really stressed and you’ve got your mornings free, so maybe you could take over calling everyone. I think it would make things a lot easier.”

Santana waits and looks down at her food. She shouldn’t be angry about this. It isn’t fair to be angry. She’s got free time, Brittany’s got classes, and Rachel’s going to have a heart attack before the week is out. It makes sense. But it also feels like a jab, like she’s not doing anything with her time. Like working from six at night until three in the morning means less because she’s not working when everyone else is. It’s like Brittany thinks that she’s slacking just because her down time is when everyone else is busy.

And she knows Brittany doesn’t really think that. Santana’s projecting, or whatever analytic bullshit Rachel would try to pull on her to get her to _explore her feelings_. She’s being irrationally defensive and she hasn’t even said anything yet. She should just calm down and not let Brittany think that she’s mad at her. Because she’s not. Santana’s not really mad _at_ anyone. She’s just…mad.

“Sounds great, Britt,” she says instead, and a part of her means it. It might be awkward, but it’ll be nice to talk to everyone again, at least for a little while. They might not have stayed in touch after high school, but they were her friends once. No reason they can’t be again.

“Awesome! Rachel has all their contact info, I think,” Brittany says, and if she noticed anything during Santana’s brief hesitation, Santana can’t tell.

So she smiles and bites into her panini and has conversations with Brittany and Julia about movies that she’ll forget by the time she goes to work.

/

She calls Mr. Schue first. Well, really she calls Ms. Pillsbury—who is technically now Mrs. Schuester but Santana can’t seem to break old habits—because she’s always in her office and Santana doesn’t know Mr. Schue’s class schedule.

The phone rings four times before she picks up, and Santana idly wonders if it’s an OCD thing or just pure coincidence.

“Hello, this is Emma Schuester,” Ms. Pillsbury says. Her voice still sounds like sandpaper and chocolate, only now it isn’t so tight.

“Hey, Ms. P. Um, Mrs. S. Well, whatever,” Santana fumbles. “It’s Santana. Lopez. Santana Lopez.” She squeezes her eyes together and winces. There’s a reason she doesn’t spend much time on the phone.

“Santana!” Ms. Pillsbury gasps. “Well, um, this is unexpected. And _lovely_ ,” she amends. “How—how are you?”

Santana rubs the back of her neck, trying not to focus on how weird this conversation is. She can barely remember saying two words to Ms. Pillsbury when she was in high school.

“Yeah, I’m good. Living out in California, so that’s great. Um, does Mr. Schue have a free period now? Or, like, can you grab him for a few minutes anyway? I mean, it’s not like his students will be missing anything unless his grasp on the Spanish language has vastly improved in four years.” She clears her throat, realizing exactly who is on the other end of her insult. “Um.” There is a very long, very uncomfortable silence. “So, is he free?”

Ms. Pillsbury hesitates before answering. “Sure, I’ll just go grab him. Hold, please!” Her command is falsely enthusiastic, and that calms Santana down. That’s the Emma Pillsbury she remembers, the one who was always a little optimistically out of touch with reality. Which is probably why she’s married to Mr. Schuester, because talk about runaway dreams.

“Santana?” Mr. Schue sounds exactly like he did when she last saw him, at high school graduation, and Santana finds herself wishing she’d visited at least once. “Is everything alright?”

(Santana smiles and tries not to cry because if Will Schuester has one great strength, it is that he is genuinely concerned to a fault).

“Yeah, it’s all great, Mr. Schue. Can you put me on speakerphone? I have something I want to ask both of you.”

“Uh, sure.” Santana hears a faint beeping and then a rush of static, so it’s not really necessary for Mr. Schue to say “Ready,” but she’s glad he does anyway.

“So,” she begins, “I know we haven’t really talked the past couple of years—like, at all—but Quinn is graduating from Columbia in May and we’re really hoping to get a New Directions reunion. We want to surprise her with it, and we were wondering if both of you would be able to make it. Um, we already booked hotel rooms and you don’t need tickets to the actual ceremony, so all you’d really have to pay for is airfare, and maybe you guys could even drive up or whatever because you’re closest—”

“Santana.” Mr. Schue mercifully cuts off her rambling. “Tell us the weekend and we’re there.”

“Really?”

She can hear the grin in his voice, and the quiet sniffle is probably his, too. He was always such a crybaby (and that still makes her smile).

“Really,” he echoes. “We wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

“Okay, well, it’s May 21st,” she says, trying not to let her breath crackle too much. “So…I guess that’s it.”

“Has everyone else already said yes?”

“Why, you gonna bail if you don’t get to see your favorite?”

He chuckles and Santana can’t help mirroring him. “You’re all my favorites, Santana.”

She scoffs. “You’re such a teacher, Mr. Schue. But yeah, a bunch of people have already said yes. And I’m in charge of persuading everyone else to come, obviously with my endearing charm. Except, well, do you know how to get in touch with Finn? Rachel didn’t—well, no one’s really talked to him in a while.”

“Yeah, yeah he’s working at Burt’s shop for the moment,” Mr. Schue says quietly. “You sure you want me to tell him? I mean, if it’ll be really awkward…”

Santana is quiet for a moment as she thinks. The thought of Finn never really entered her mind until just a few minutes ago. She doesn’t harbor any ill will against him, though she can never truly like him or respect him like she might have been able to. He was just the easiest one of them to phase out. He never really fit with the group, no matter how hard he tried to be the leader. He was always the popular kid, the jock, the one unharmed by pregnancy scares and having a gay brother.

But it isn’t because of Finn that Santana hesitates. It’s because of Rachel. Rachel, who spent the first four months at NYADA being completely devastated. Rachel, who was on the verge of creating her own one-woman show exploring the complexities of doomed relationships through the subtle art of miming. Finn broke Rachel, at least for a little bit. And she put herself back together gloriously, and she definitely doesn’t need him anymore. (Santana thinks she never really needed him at all). Santana wonders if seeing him again would create a couple cracks, cracks that Rachel still doesn’t need.

But Rachel is already crumbling, and maybe what she does need is a dose of the familiar. Or some closure; Santana isn’t sure what to call it.

“Yeah, let him know. Just mention it to him or whatever, and if he comes, he comes. I think it’ll be okay. Four years is a long time.”

“Not that long,” Mr. Schue says, and his voice is so nostalgic that it turns Santana’s smile sad.

“Yeah, I guess not,” she replies. “It was good talking to you, Mr. Schue.”

And she means it.

/

Once she goes down the list of people that have already said yes, she’s surprised to find that she doesn’t have as many calls to make as she thought. The only people left are Mike, Tina, and Artie. It isn’t too hard to decide whom to call first because Mike’s number was the first one she memorized when she and Brittany got out to New York. He hadn’t told them he had switched to Tisch until they ran into him a few months into the semester, and from then on, he and Brittany were inseparable. Santana didn’t mind because she had a lot on her plate and Brittany got kind of crazy when she got deep into dance-mode. But Mike stayed when they left; he was always more suited to the structure and intensity of the program.

He picks up on the first ring, which she always used to tease him about. “Santana?” He sounds shocked.

“Yeah, hey Bruce Lee. How are you?”

“Uh, I’m good. What about you? How’s LA? I haven’t heard from Brittany in a while.”

Santana nods before remembering that Mike can’t see her. “Yeah, she’s been pretty busy with end-of-the-year recitals and stuff. LA’s great; we’re great. Listen, have you talked to Rachel lately?”

“No, actually, we haven’t spoken in months.”

Santana furrows her brows. “Why? You guys are, like, a block away. You used to hang all the time.”

“I, uh,” he stalls, and Santana can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, “I graduated in December.”

“What!” Santana yells. “Congratu-fucking-lations, dude! But you didn’t stay in New York?”

“I’m definitely keeping it open as an option. I’m making my rounds at a lot of dance companies, just to see what’s out there. I don’t know, New York is a lot sometimes, you know? Anyway, I’m in Chicago right now.”

Santana pauses and digests just how freaky and perfect this situation is. “Okay, listen to what I’m about to say very carefully: do not leave Chicago.”

“Why not?”

“Quinn’s graduating in about a month and we’re trying to get everyone from Glee down there.”

“Quinn’s in Chicago?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Are you really that dense, Stir Fry? We only Skyped with her and Puck about a million times freshman year. What were you so busy doing that you don’t remember?”

“Dancing?” he guesses, earning another eye-roll.

“Whatever. Yes, she’s in Chicago; yes, you should say hi and tell her you’re a terrible friend; and yes, you should also tell me right now that you are absolutely coming to her graduation on May 21st.”

“I think I can do all that,” he chuckles.

“Awesome,” Santana says as her pen flourishes an accomplished check mark next to his name. “I assume I can count on your girl-clone being there, too?”

“What? Oh, Tina. Yeah, probably. I’ll ask her when she gets here.” He sounds awkward and Santana notices that he said ‘here’ and not ‘home’ like she was expecting. If they were still living in the same city, maybe Santana would pry. But they’re not, so she gives him her best wishes and hangs up.

She takes a deep breath and dials the last number. As the phone rings she lets her breath out slowly, forgetting Mr. Schue’s nostalgia and Mike’s accomplishments that she thinks she should be sharing. By the time Artie picks up, she’s ready and happy to talk to him.

“I’ve got a huge project to edit, Santana; make it quick.”

“Careful there, Ironhide. You accusing me of being fast?”

“And just yesterday I was wondering how I ever survived four years away from your charming wit.”

“Yeah, you _better_ have,” she retorts, smiling. “Anyway, Quinn’s graduating on May 21 st. We’re thinking surprise New Directions reunion. You in?”

“Heeelll yeah, we gon’ rock Chi-town,” he drawls.

Santana can’t tell if she’s laughing out of amusement or secondhand embarrassment. “God, I knew there was a reason I moved way the hell away from you.”

“No matter where I am, I’m still always a plane ride away from you,” Artie teases.

“Corny writing from a film major. At least you’re consistent.” Santana runs a hand through her hair. She’s nervous, like she doesn’t want this conversation to end but she doesn’t want to keep talking either. “You’re good though, right? Florida still treating you okay?”

“It is, except I have this massive movie to put together and _someone_ —”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, you jerk,” Santana interrupts. “I’ll forward you the hotel info. You just make sure your ass is in Chicago, okay?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he answers, and he hangs up before either of them has a chance to say goodbye.

Artie Abrams is going to make a fantastic director.

* * *

 

It’s three o’clock by the time Santana finishes making calls, which means she has about three hours before she has to go into work. Brittany’s last class is at four, which means she’ll be done at five. Santana crosses over to the living room window and opens it, sticking her head out like a dog as a light breeze passes by. She basks in the sun, the smell of spring and promise, and takes a prolonged breath.

She _could_ go to work in three hours. Or she could grab some frozen yogurt and enjoy a beautiful afternoon.

(It barely takes a second to decide).

Jay huffs when she calls out, but she’s not in trouble because she’s always at work. Santana figures she’s entitled to at least one bullshit sick day.

She’s halfway to grabbing her keys when she realizes she’s not done making calls for Quinn. It’s not a call that anyone’s forcing her to make, but she knows that she has to. Santana frowns; one of these days she’ll stop caring about people’s well-being so much. She’s not meant to be a softie like Brittany.

She dials the numbers quickly, already tapping her feet. She’s hoping this call will be as short as Artie’s because this is not the day to get involved in good-natured bitchy banter.

He picks up on the first ring and his voice is—pardoning the totally lame pun—curt.

“My, my, Santana Lopez. I can’t remember the last time you called me, so I can only assume that whatever you need me to do is very important.”

“Yeah, yeah. Can the witty repartee, Tim Gunn. I need you to do me a favor for Quinn’s graduation.”

“Alright.”

“Everyone is coming and Rachel said she booked the hotel rooms already, so I assume she booked enough to fit everyone. I need you to make sure that Blaine bunks with Artie.”

“That’s easy enough. I already assumed that Rachel and I would be sharing a room. They divide cleanly; we have almost the perfect amount of couples.”

Santana shakes her head. “No, Rachel has to have a room by herself.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Santana; why would we have single rooms when we have space to share?”

“Because you might have a roommate.”

Kurt expels a frustrated breath. “I’m still not following and I’m reconsidering my agreement to this favor.”

“Look,” Santana starts, all-too-easily reverting into a snappy high school bitch, “I don’t pretend to know or care what your relationship with him is. I don’t know if you’ve told him about this whole plan; I don’t know if you even speak to him at all. But I couldn’t _not_ invite him. And this is the easiest way to ensure that things are far less awkward than they could be.”

“Finn’s coming?” Kurt asks dumbly.

“I don’t know,” Santana huffs. “Ask him yourself; I haven’t spoken to him in years. I told Mr. Schue to pass along the message, so who knows if he’ll even show. But, well, Rachel has planned every other detail of this trip to a T, so I figure I have to cover all my bases.”

“Oh, no. Santana Lopez, don’t tell me you’ve started to _care_ about other people!”

“Ha, ha,” she deadpans. “One of these days you’ll all stop being surprised when I do nice things for you.”

“At which point your ego will self-destruct and reform into a molten core of insults and arrogance. Balance, of course, must be restored to the world.”

“Ladyface.”

“Selena.”

Santana almost grunts out of frustration. She just wants her fucking frozen yogurt. “Look, will you just make sure this happens? And don’t tell Rachel it was my idea. Upgrade the room, tell her it’s a belated graduation present, I don’t care. Just don’t attach my name to it.”

“Why?”

“Because she’ll know. Rachel…just because, okay? Jeez.” Santana doesn’t know how to explain to Kurt that the way she and Rachel bond is pretty strange. They joke and bitch and actually talk most of the time, but then when one of them is in trouble, they go out of their way to make it better. Santana puts as much thought into making sure that Rachel is okay as she does with Brittany, and she’s pretty sure Rachel does the same thing. It’s like they’re still trying to prove to each other that they care, like they’re making up for completely misinterpreting each other in high school. And now that they’re far apart and they can’t leave play tickets or cookies or whatever in each other’s rooms, their gestures are grander.  Santana doesn’t really know how to explain it because it sounds fucking weird whenever she tries to. But it works for both of them.

“Okay, don’t worry,” Kurt placates. “I’ll make it work.”

“Ew. Go back to Parsons.”

“Anything else I can do for you?” he sighs.

“No. Thanks, though.”

“I’ll see you in Chicago, Santana.”

“Yeah, looking forward to it,” she replies, and she’s finally free.

She rewards herself with sprinkles on top of a scoop of vanilla when she finally gets outside. There are tables outside of the frozen yogurt place, and she wishes she’d remembered to grab her iPod. She could really go for some calming music to drown out the people-noises that are always louder when the weather is nice.

Brittany brings her iPod with her wherever she goes. She always says it’s because you never know when you’ll have to dance, and she means it exactly like that. When they go places, Brittany is always on the lookout for sad people. She watches crowds to find them, the ones with their heads bowed or hands shoved in pockets. She stuffs her headphones in her ears and start busting moves, and Santana has yet to find someone who hasn’t been cheered up by one of Brittany’s impromptu routines.

Santana doesn’t really think Brittany needs her iPod though, because Brittany is the music. When Brittany dances in the street, Santana hears Ke$ha. When she danced in Glee, she was more Whitney than any ballad Mercedes or Rachel could belt. When Brittany dances for herself—when it’s not a routine; when Brittany just needs to move because otherwise her feelings and words are just going to explode out of her—Santana hears Adele. Adele and Regina and Carole King and all the saddest love songs that make her heart break in exquisite ways.

And when it’s night and they’re in bed and Brittany is finding things about Santana that even she couldn’t locate; when her fingers are too much and too little and her skin is just enough; when Santana is teetering on the edge of asking Brittany to quit making discoveries or just revealing everything—that’s when she hears Amy.

(Amy, because there were never any lies with her, except for the ones she told every day. Amy, because she was too much at the right time and not enough too late. Amy, because they don’t make people that beautiful unless it’s for a reason, and Santana is still finding new reasons. Amy—just because.)

Well. If it’s music she’s looking for, Santana knows exactly where to find it.

/

There’s still quite a bit of Brittany’s class left when Santana gets there. She steals a peek through the window on the door, smiling as Brittany demonstrates a confident stomp to a lanky kid. Santana walks down to the makeshift waiting room and says hi to the other dance teachers. Julia makes a joke about seeing her twice in a day, and Gavin, Brittany’s other best friend who could rival Kurt in a gay-off, fusses over her outfit and hair, twirling around her as his own intentionally-messy mop of curls flops on his head. Santana sits down and chats with everyone and it’s like time doesn’t even exist it goes by so fast. She wonders, not for the first or last time, why she wants to change anything when this is where everything clicks.

“Hey!” Brittany bounds over to her. Her ponytail is matted, hair hanging limp after hours of spinning. Santana is surprised the hair tie is still holding. Brittany’s last class of the day is her most advanced class, so she gets pretty into it. She smells like sweat and effort, and Santana thinks she looks beautiful.

“Hi,” Santana smiles back.

“I thought you had work?” Brittany’s breaths are heavy even when she chugs her water bottle. The bottle crinkles with every mouthful.

“Yeah, but I called out.” Brittany’s eyebrows ask ‘why’, her mouth too busy drinking. Santana shrugs. “I missed you.”

There is a chorus of ‘awws’ and good-natured teasing as she and Brittany smile bashfully at each other. (They don’t need to be bashful, five years into a relationship, but Santana’s heart flutters when they are). They stick around for a few minutes before Brittany exits gracefully like she always does, citing the need for a shower, which earns a playful wink from Gavin.

“Did you walk here?” Brittany asks as they cross the parking lot.

“Yeah, it was too nice outside not to. I’ve been making calls all day; I needed the air.”

“Ooh, does that mean everyone’s coming?” Brittany claps excitedly.

Brittany stops in front of her car and instead of answering, Santana treats herself to a hug. She presses her cheek to Brittany’s collarbone, wraps her arms securely around her back, smiles at the second of hesitation before Brittany hugs back even harder.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” she coos. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Santana whispers. “I just missed you.”

“Okay.”

Even after a full day of work, the smell of Brittany’s body wash still lingers on her shoulders. It’s one of Santana’s favorite smells, even if it doesn’t work right when she uses it.

“Can we be boring tonight? Like, watch old movies and eat a whole box of pasta and stay up really late for no reason?”

Brittany laughs and Santana feels it on her skin. “That sounds awesome.” She kisses Santana on the temple and pulls away, jingling her keys. “Let’s go get started then.”

Santana grabs her hand when they both sit down and tries to pretend that she isn’t holding on for dear life.

* * *

 

Two hours later they’re halfway through _All About Eve_ and a pot of penne. Santana has this thing for the classics—classic literature, classic music, classic movies. Tell her about anything that cannot ever be duplicated, and Santana wants to get her hands on it. There is a unifying feel to those kinds of things, like everyone knew how the world worked and that was it. They didn’t have to explain or justify anything. They were smarter and more naïve at the same time. Santana has always thought that Brittany would fit right into that world.

Santana loves _All About Eve_ for a lot of reasons. Bette Davis is at least five of them. But she also loves it because it’s an old movie, and all old movies are kind of sad. Santana doesn’t know when the turning point was, but somewhere along the way movies evolved. Science teachers will tell you that evolution is a great and necessary thing, but that was before anyone knew about it. Once we learned how to explain evolution, we learned how to judge it, and that’s when everything got complicated. Sometimes evolution is bad. Sometimes things change and get worse and that’s what happened to Hollywood probably sometime in the 60s. But old movies, they’re still in that perfect place between art and entertainment. There is a grace to all of them, even the least-popular ones. But the classics, the ones that still stand as favorites, those are transcendent.

So Santana watches Bette Davis and Anne Baxter duke it out and she wonders which one she’d want to play more. The problem is she understands both of them. The Eve in her, the part of her that wants more and doesn’t care how she gets it—that’s the part that she relied on in high school, that she’s scared to bring up again because she doesn’t know what it’s evolved into. She doesn’t know if it’s better now that she’s better or if it would come back just the same. But she’s Margo, too; that’s the part that lives in LA and wonders when it got to be April because February was, like, just yesterday. That’s the part that looks back on her days as Eve and only remembers the good things, even though the bad things were a lot more prevalent.

(It’s tough, the situation in which Santana finds herself. Margo is the sympathetic character. People don’t exactly want to _be_ Margo because she gets royally shafted by Eve, but they like her. She’s the good guy in the movie.

And yet, Margo always loses).

“Britt?” Santana prompts. She traces around the patch of freckles on Brittany’s arm that have always looked like they should be a constellation. “Do you ever think about what comes next?”

“I know what comes next,” Brittany answers. “Addison is about to rip Eve a new one.”

“No,” Santana chuckles. “I mean for us. Like, what comes after LA.”

Brittany pauses the movie and shifts so she can get a better angle for talking. “Yeah, sometimes. I mean, I don’t think we’ll live here forever. It’s kind of exciting to think about. But we’ve got some stuff to do first, I think.”

By the way Brittany smiles and tries not to look too hopeful, Santana knows that ‘stuff’ includes getting married. It kind of hurts that Brittany still coddles her when it comes to emotions. She still approaches her like a flustered deer, like she’s going to scamper off if Brittany gets too close. Santana needs to find a way to tell her that she’s in this all the way and that means feelings too, but this isn’t the kind of thing you can tell someone and just expect them to accept. Change isn’t that easy.

“Why, are you getting bored?” Brittany teases.

“No,” Santana smiles, and it’s only half a lie. She might think her life is monotonous, but it’s never boring when Brittany’s in it. “Just thinking.”

“Less thinking, more movie-watching. This is one of my favorites.”

“Why? You only ever watch it when I watch with you.”

Brittany rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “Well, duh. My favorite person ever introduced me to it, so it’s special. I can’t watch it with anyone else.”

_Maybe Margo wins tonight_ , Santana thinks as she kisses Brittany. She falls asleep before the movie ends, so it remains a possibility.

Hoping makes for nice dreams.


	3. some nights

The weeks leading up to Rachel’s graduation aren’t anything special. They don’t go by faster because Brittany is scrambling to wrap up her classes and remember five different recital routines. They don’t drag on because Lady Day’s is in a slump and Santana is really only making drinks for sixty-five-year-old men who wax on and on about how they don’t make music like this anymore, and how ‘bout another gin and tonic, sweet cheeks? More than once, Santana takes a moment to remind herself that it’s exceedingly rude (and definitely harmful to her status as an employed person) to douse patrons with alcohol.

But mostly the weeks are just weeks, days are just days, and Santana relaxes into routine. She lets herself get caught up in Brittany’s smile and Brittany’s hands, and _especially_ Brittany’s hands. She forgets about later and focuses on the now, because the now is pretty great. Now has blond hair and laughs a lot. Now is silky blue, the color that happens when the sky and the ocean gradually fade into each other. Now is when Santana looks into Brittany’s eyes and sees that color reflected, and she doesn’t know which one she’s really seeing but she does know that she won’t ever need anything else.

(It’s the weight of a small box in her pocket, drooping into her jackets and pants and purses like the dot underneath a question mark, asking her when she’ll turn her “soon, soon” into a now).

So it’s somewhat of a surprise when Sam is suddenly driving them to the airport. It’s in the passenger seat that Santana finally realizes that her suitcase full of clothes is in the trunk and ready to actually be used. She shifts around until she fits her hand through the space between the door and her chair, threading it back as far as she can. She smiles when Brittany clasps her palm, sliding her thumb across Santana’s suddenly-too-warm skin.

Sam flips on his hazards when they reach the airport and runs out of the car so he can grab their bags before they have a chance. Santana laughs at his old soul trapped in abs that could slice her jugular if she ever ran into them.

Brittany takes the bags from Sam as Santana checks the car for anything they might have dropped. She pauses and watches them talking, wondering if they’ve always resembled each other or if there comes a point where friends start looking like family.

“We good, San?” Brittany asks.

Santana gives two thumbs up. “We are go for takeoff, captain!” Sam and Brittany laugh.

Santana runs a hand through her hair, smoothing it down against the strong winds, as Sam slings an arm around her and ropes her into a sideways hug. “Let me know when you land, alright? Say hi to Rachel and Kurt for me and all that shit.”

Santana wraps her arm around Sam’s back and gives a squeeze. “Sure thing, Trouty.” He smiles and kisses Brittany on the head, and then he’s off with a wave and Brittany is smiling at her. Santana relaxes again because if there’s anyone more excited than Brittany when it comes to airplanes, she’s yet to find them. Brittany loves everything about flying—airports, the wide hallways, sitting in the terminal and indulging in either a McDonald’s breakfast or a giant frappucino from Starbucks. (But never both together because the last time that happened, it was a very messy plane ride).

Brittany always gets the window seat because she loves watching cities when they take off and land. And Santana always books night flights because she doesn’t ever get tired of watching Brittany watch cities, how the twinkling lights of skyscrapers and office buildings that never sleep reflect in Brittany’s eyes and bounce back until Santana isn’t sure where the lights are really coming from.

Tonight, Los Angeles is sunny when they leave, but Brittany will get her city stars when they land. They’ll have completely traveled over dusk and twilight, which is okay with Santana. Sun, then no sun—those are absolutes.

Just like how it’s an absolute that the planes of Brittany’s face, reflected in the small glass of the airplane window, will always be Santana’s favorite piece of art.

This flight is no exception, especially when Santana has to blink her eyes when they land at JFK. The fluorescent lights that are normally harsh at night seem suddenly dim. Bubbles explode in Santana’s stomach in a way that she always associated with Brittany and Quinn and—later on—Sam, in a way that she never, _ever_ expected to associate with Rachel Berry or Kurt. Sometimes Santana catches herself and enjoys the feeling of being excited to see Rachel. It’s really nice, being her friend.

Brittany texts Kurt to let them know they’ve landed and Santana texts Sam, her fingers flying as she keeps walking. Kurt had wanted to pick them up, but Santana reminded him that chivalry is pointless when you don’t have a car and driving in the city sucks. So they hail a cab—almost the second they step outside because they’re fucking hot and cab drivers are mostly pervs—and Santana relaxes into the torn leather seat. She’s halfway in between excited and tired, so she settles on tired right now. The excitement will hit full-force when Rachel starts squealing, laughing, speaking complete gibberish, and crying, in that order.

Brittany leans against her and suddenly they’re in front of Kurt and Rachel’s building. It’s a different apartment than when she and Brittany lived in New York, but there is a lanky figure sitting on the stoop, right leg crossed over left and twitching anxiously, so Santana knows they’re in the right place. When he sees the cab slowing to a stop, Kurt jolts off the steps and hops over to them, feet as light as a cat’s. He puts a finger to his mouth and opens the door quietly, whisper-yelling a “ _Hiii!_ ” when he finally sees them.

Santana pays the driver and unloads their bags from the car and then she and Brittany are pulled into Kurt’s arms, swaying on the dirty, wet street.

“Oh my god, it is so good to see you!” Kurt hisses. “You both look amazing!”

“Why are we whispering?” Brittany asks, mimicking Kurt’s tone of voice anyway.

“Because Rachel thinks I just stepped out to get some coffee and I don’t want to give away the surprise.”

Santana chuckles and ruffles his hair, ignoring his indignant grunt. “You are so cheesy, Hummel.” He rolls his eyes and Santana ruffles his hair again. “Well, come on. Let’s get on with surprising her!”

Kurt smiles and grabs her hand. Brittany takes her other hand and they trail into the building like that, single-file like they’re on a field trip and the teacher told them not to get lost.

Rachel and Kurt’s apartment is up five flights of stairs, of course, and they’re the loudest fucking stairs Santana has ever heard. They’re louder than Rachel Berry herself, which is saying something.

Kurt giggles before he slides his key in the door and opens it. “Oh, Rachel,” he sing-songs, “ _somebody_ flew in early to meet you…”

“What!” Rachel yells, and Santana almost blows it there. “Oh my god, Dads?” For someone so tiny her footsteps are thunderous, and then all of a sudden she’s standing in front of the three of them in a tanktop and pajama pants with hearts on them. Santana fully soaks in the moment—Rachel Berry with an open jaw, a messy bun, wide eyes, and absolutely, completely without words. It’s a pretty big accomplishment, and Santana will be feeling smug for weeks.

“Brittany! Santana! What are you _doing_ here?” Her voice is higher than the pitches you stop hearing as you get older. “I can’t believe you’re here!” She guffaws and vaults at them. Brittany, no doubt thanks to her excellent dancer’s posture, catches Rachel and remains steady, but Santana lets out an “oof!” and takes a step backward. Rachel starts laughing and then she’s jumping up and down and they have no choice but to join her.

“But you guys…how did—Kurt never said, Kurt!” She glares at him and Santana does start laughing then. Rachel whips back to her, a goofy smile on her face. “… _Your ‘ere can’t bleeve you ‘sprised so evil but look!_ ” Santana only catches half of Rachel’s words and she’s not sure they’re even words at that point.

Rachel stops suddenly and all the shock and mirth leaves her face. “Wait, oh my god, you guys. This is terrible timing! I can’t entertain you because my dads are flying in tomorrow and then we have to make some more preparations and I’m graduating! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry that we won’t be able to hang out; what are you going to _do_ —?”

Santana bites the inside of her lip to keep herself from laughing. (Kurt left the room at least two minutes earlier, doubled over and struggling to walk).

“Rachel,” she starts slowly, making sure not to lock eyes with Brittany, lest she lose it completely, “that’s why we’re here. You didn’t think we’d miss your graduation, did you? We’re here for you.”

Rachel leans her head back, evaluating Santana’s face for any hint of a joke, then checks Brittany for confirmation. Brittany simply nods, and there are the tears that Santana was waiting for.

Rachel Berry breakdowns may be intense, but, Santana thinks as she settles into Rachel’s small frame, at least they’re predictable.

* * *

 

It’s like they’re back in college again, with junk food and pillows strewn about the living room floor. Rachel’s musical playlist echoes softly from her laptop. (Santana had teased Rachel at first about how she shouldn’t even have a playlist when it was probably just her entire music collection. And then she had dropped in to find Rachel rapping along to the entire _Eminem Show_ album with the practiced ease that only comes after multiple listens, and that was the end of that).

“Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, I still can’t believe you pulled this off,” Rachel says for about the millionth time. “You’re terrible at pulling off surprises.”

“No, I’m not!” Kurt huffs.

“ _Kurt_ ,” three voices chime simultaneously.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “Well, that makes it all the more impressive then, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Rachel accepts, and then she’s giggling and it’s infectious.

“So what are you going to do after college?” Santana asks.

“Ugh, don’t ask me that,” Rachel groans. “Everyone asks me that, and I always have the same answer: I don’t know.”

“What about that composing crap or whatever?” Too late, Santana notices Kurt’s vigorous head-shaking.

“Well,” Rachel sighs dramatically, “my professor has a lot of contacts and even more ideas, so that’s good, but they all need people with experience and I don’t have any. I’d really love to just hang around my professor for a while but he doesn’t have the time.”

“Plus that’s _really creepy_ ,” Santana laughs.

“Shush,” Brittany chides, lightly slapping a hand to Santana’s thigh. “I think it’s great, Rachel. Even if you’re not doing anything, it’s still change and stuff.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t doing anything,” Rachel huffs.

“So what are you doing?” Once again, Santana notices Kurt’s head-shaking a second too late.

“Well, Quinn and I have been talking recently, and she really wants to take her writing in a different direction, so—”

“Hold up,” Santana interrupts. “Don’t tell me you’re honestly writing a musical with Quinn Fabray."

“It’s just an idea,” Rachel says, and Santana takes the momentary lull as her cue to laugh hysterically. If there was any partnership doomed to fighting and failure, it’s the one between Rachel and Quinn. They either see eye-to-eye so much that no one can shut them up for days, or their beliefs are at completely opposite ends of the spectrum and they argue incessantly and still no one can shut them up for days. They’re really good friends, but most of the time they’re not made to work together.

“It’s a weird one,” Santana says. “What’s it about, your shared failures with Finn?”

“Billie Holiday, actually,” Rachel snaps, and that shuts Santana up quickly. Because _fuck_ , that’s a good idea. Quinn is the perfect person to absorb Billie’s mixture of angst and “fuck everyone” attitude, and Rachel—well, Rachel might not be Billie herself, but she’s damn well going to obsess over that music until she’s picked out the right songs and placed them in their appropriate contexts.

“Oh,” she mumbles, stalling. “That’s…that’s an idea.”

“It is!” Rachel continues, oblivious to the fact that she should be lording her musical superiority over Santana right now. She’s never missed an opportunity before. “Apparently Quinn found her autobiography in a used bookstore and read it through in a day. I haven’t looked at it yet, but obviously Ms. Holiday is a treasure trove of emotion.”

“Rachel…” Santana chuckles. Kurt slaps a palm to his forehead. Brittany fails to stifle a laugh.

“What, she _is_!” Rachel insists. “Between the troubled childhood, the rampant racism she faced, all of her failed relationships, and her debilitating drug use, Billie Holiday is a perfect protagonist for a stage production.”

“Yeah, too bad someone already tried that,” Kurt points out.

Rachel looks devastated. “Who?”

“Billie Holiday,” Santana answers. “She did five shows on Broadway. It was called—funnily enough— _Holiday on Broadway_.” She laughs at her joke and then realizes that she’s the only one. Brittany is smiling at her adoringly, and Rachel and Kurt are staring at her, their mouths open wide. “What? I know great singers, considering I am one. Plus, come on. I work at a bar called Lady Day’s. You think I don’t know everything about the namesake?”

“I reserve the right to be surprised, given that—apart from your shining moment as Anita—you never showed any penchant for musical theater in high school, and you spent the whole of college buried in literature and criminal justice textbooks. Anyway,” she says, taking a deep breath, and Santana thinks she might be losing her touch because that had nothing on the Rachel Berry speeches of old, “ _Holiday on Broadway_ wasn’t the same thing. It was basically five concerts. This, when we finish it, will be a fully-realized piece of drama.”

“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious about everything, Santana,” Rachel retorts, and they all take a moment to dissolve into laughter. Which just proves the ironic point that Rachel Berry is even serious about humor.

“So how would that even work?” Brittany chimes in. “You couldn’t really jam her whole life into three hours, could you?”

(Santana has given up on heeding any of Kurt’s silent gestures. They’re so far deep into this that nothing is going to stop Rachel from talking.)

“That’s the tough bit,” Rachel admits. “Quinn and I can’t decide which part of her life to focus on. There are just so many pivotal moments.”

“She’s more than just the things that happened to her, Rachel,” Santana snaps. She’s being unfair, but something about Rachel’s tone makes her bristle. Like Billie Holiday is a story instead of a person, like her life is this salacious tale that the public owns just because she doesn’t have it anymore. It’s a stupid thing to be taking personally, but Santana has done a lot stupider.

“I know that; that’s why we want to create this in the first place. The essence of Billie Holiday is a feeling, not a specific event. But that feeling has to start somewhere.”

Santana props her head on her hand and sighs. “Well, you have to scrap everything before the 40s.”

“What! But that’s the first transformation, the shift from young, impressionable girl to a realist who scorns the entertainment industry. Those years are _crucial_.”

Santana has to laugh. She may have grown up, but clearly Rachel Berry’s ideas of romanticism haven’t matured a bit. “Rachel, this is a musical about Billie Holiday’s life, not _yours_. I don’t think she was ever an impressionable person.”

“For as much as you scoff at this idea, you seem to have a lot of thoughts about it. Care to join our team?”

“I’m crap at writing.”

“But you’re good at ideas.”

“‘No, no, Santana; what are you talking about. Your writing is perfectly lovely.’ Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“There’s a difference between a vote of confidence and outright lying,” Rachel smirks.

Santana smirks and throws a pillow, popping Rachel right between the eyes. “Bitch,” she teases.

Rachel throws one back and Brittany’s already two steps ahead of both of them and Kurt jumps up yelling and just like that they’re back in college again. They’re back right around Thanksgiving 2012, when they’d gotten comfortable enough in New York to step outside their Lima-bubble, but honest enough to realize that sometimes the bubble was a good thing. Thanksgiving was when they consolidated friends, threw parties and laughed with each other. It was right around that time that Brittany started jumping on Rachel’s bed; Kurt stopped screeching every time he walked in on Santana and Brittany in the shower; and Santana started looking up vegan-friendly recipes. This was the point of the year when their parents started asking them when they were coming home, instead of the other way around.

(In the back of Santana’s mind is the thought that Rachel is graduating tomorrow and there probably won’t be any more New York-Thanksgivings. But that gets knocked out of focus every time Rachel beans her in the temple with a pillow, and for a musical theater major she has pretty good hand-eye coordination, so eventually Santana stops thinking about it at all).

When they fall asleep that night it’s in a pile of tangled limbs and blankets, using each other as support more than the actual pillows. Brittany is curled around Santana’s back and Santana’s head is on Rachel’s stomach and Kurt is somehow sprawled across all three of them. It should be the most uncomfortable position in the world.

But Brittany’s hands are soothing and Rachel’s stomach is soft and the weight of Kurt on her legs is like a heavy blanket, and when Santana finally closes her eyes, she feels only warmth.

/

Santana would like to say that the graduation ceremony went by so quickly that she barely noticed it, but that would be the biggest fucking lie she’s ever told. Graduation ceremonies are not for the faint of heart, she decides. They are not for the weak-willed, which she isn’t; nor the casual acquaintance, which—considering the amount of time she’s had to put up with Rachel Berry, both voluntarily and reluctantly—she most definitely isn’t; nor the sober, which she unfortunately was. Three and a half hours of talking and sweating and she spent every minute yearning greedily for the flask in her bag back at the apartment.

There are moments, though, that make it worth it, like when she and Rachel’s dads spend forty five minutes judging the ridiculous names in the booklet. Leroy has something to say about almost every one, but it’s Hiram’s comments that have them rolling in their seats. He’s sneaky with his humor like Brittany, creeping under the radar with zingers that are half impeccable timing, half comedic genius.

And it’s pretty cool that everyone is happy to be there. Under the complaining about the heat or the length or the complete vapidity of the whole process, this is a celebration. Everyone is here because they accomplished something (or at least know someone who did). In between laughing and waving to Rachel in the crowd of students, Santana takes moments to soak in the feeling of finality. The air feels charged with a million things—anticipation, potential, all that other optimistic crap. But it smells like memories; the brief breezes when someone fans their booklet shift through Santana’s hair and leave traces of a fond kind of heartache. She’s nostalgic for something she’s only had once, and even high school was just practice.

So when Rachel finally walks the stage with a smile fit to blind the tri-state area, Santana jumps up and claps and yells even though the lump in her throat is choking off her voice. She doesn’t know whether she’s happy for Rachel or sad that graduating college isn’t something she gets to do, too. And sure, she could always go back to school, but that would always be a qualified celebration. People would be happy for her but they’d always preface their congratulations with a “ _Finally!_ ”

Santana grabs Brittany’s hand when she can’t yell anymore. She can’t do a lot right now, but she can always hold Brittany’s hand. Her fingers grip Brittany’s and transmit all of her worries; molecules of regret and anxiety diffuse through Brittany’s skin and sink down until she can store them and sort them out. (If Santana had her way, she’d leave it all up to osmosis—melt both of them down until they could just let feelings pass across the semipermeable membranes of their minds, because Brittany has always been a higher concentration of everything that Santana needs). And Brittany clasps her hand just as tightly, squeezing just enough to say, “We’re no slouches, you and me. We have things to be proud of, too.”

It works so well that Santana doesn’t feel any more stinging pangs of nostalgia for the rest of the ceremony. She doesn’t think of anything but Rachel until they find her in the crowd, talking animatedly with a lanky boy who looks vaguely familiar.

Rachel runs over to them, squealing, when she finally spots them, and Santana has to shake her head.

Brittany is the first to reach her. “Congratulations!” she yells, matching the frequency of Rachel’s voice. Santana wonders, not for the first time, how she hasn’t gone deaf yet. _Dogs_ can’t hear these sounds.

“Thank you, thank you,” Rachel says, responding frantically to everyone’s offers of praise. She briefly hugs Santana and Kurt before letting her fathers sweep her up in their arms and swing her around. The Berry family might just be the most dramatic one Santana’s ever known.

“Good lord, baby girl, you’re lucky we love you because that was one _dry_ affair,” Leroy flutters.

“And no dry affair is a good affair,” Hiram quips, prompting Rachel to swat him in the chest.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Brittany adds. “I only fell asleep twice.”

“Well, chore though it may have been, I’m glad you were all here for it,” Rachel beams. “I guess we’ll just have to rejuvenate ourselves with a celebratory lunch then.”

“You know I’m all for grub,” Santana says, “but you seem to have left your man-candy hanging back there.” She tilts her head to direct Rachel’s attention to the boy with whom she’d been talking, who’s spent the last few moments looking pointedly over at their group.

“Who?” Rachel cranes her head to follow Santana’s gaze and swoops back to her with a glorious eye-roll. “Santana, that’s not my _man-candy_ ,” she air-quotes. “That’s James! Don’t you remember James?”

Santana squints her eyes, scanning his face more intently. “Maybe…” she drawls.

“Well, you have to say hi anyway; I know he’ll remember you.” Rachel skips over to him, catching her graduation cap before it escapes the bobby pin and falls off. They come back and he looks around at everyone, doing a double-take when he gets to Brittany and Santana. “James, you know Kurt and my dads, obviously, and I think you remember my friends Brittany and Santana? They used to go to school in New York, too.”

Brittany waves and says hi and Santana can tell she’s just waiting for the ball to drop. She’s always been better with faces than Santana.

Santana and James look at each other for a long moment. She scrutinizes his confident smile, the smooth-as-coffee skin, his high cheekbones that she’s pretty sure Kurt covets. He does the same to her, and when the light bulb finally goes off, she can’t believe she ever forgot.

“ _Captain!_ ” they both yell simultaneously.

“What are you—oh.” Rachel blushes. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that night again. _Ever_ again.”

“I can’t believe I almost _forgot!_ ” Santana punches James in the shoulder. “It’s so good to see you; you look great!”

James smiles and shrugs. “Shed the pudge, lost the glasses. You look the same—hot as ever.”

“Keep dreaming, buddy.”

“Well, now that I’ve got your permission…” He dodges Santana’s second punch and scoots closer to Brittany. “I dunno, Britt—I think you’ve let this one get out of control.”

“Yeah, but that’s my favorite Santana,” Brittany smiles.

James opens his mouth to ask more questions, but Santana cuts him off. It’s been a long time since she’s eaten anything.

“As much as I love this little rendezvous, I’m pretty sure I’d love food more. Why don’t you swing by Rachel’s place later? Like, nine-ish?”

“What’s happening at my place later?” Rachel asks. Santana just looks at her. “No, come on, Santana. This is one of my last nights in New York—”

“Exactly.”

“—and I’d _like_ to be able to remember it three years from now.”

Santana smirks and loops her arm through Rachel’s, grabbing Brittany on her other side and leading the group out toward the restaurant.

“Rachel, if there’s anything consistent about your house parties, it is that they are _always_ memorable.”

/

Lunch is a fiasco. Dinner is even worse. (Better? She can’t decide. Sometimes Santana feels so happy that she’s sad about it.) It seems like she spends more time laughing than eating, and yet she oozes out of the restaurants feeling like she’s just undergone a phase transition to a plasma state. She’s full of smiles and wine and mostly steak, because if someone else is treating her to a fancy dinner, she’s certainly not going to order chicken. _“If you don’t pay, you get filet,”_ she’s always said, and it hasn’t led her wrong yet.

She holds onto Brittany as she sways all the way back to Rachel’s apartment. Hiram and Leroy leave them all with hugs and stern warnings that they all have an early morning the next day. Brittany and Santana are flying out at ten and the Berry clan departs for Lima at eleven.

It occurs to Santana, as she helps get the apartment ready—which really just means finding every bottle of alcohol because it’s not like they’re expecting a crowd—that she doesn’t know what Kurt’s going to do next year. He’s still got a year left at Parsons, after spending the months following high school sulking in Lima and rearranging his life. She knows _what_ he’ll do. She just can’t imagine how he’ll do it. Santana can’t picture Kurt without Rachel.

“Kurtsie,” Santana trills, twisting open a bottle of vodka.

“Don’t call me that,” he calls back.

“What are _you_ going to do next year?” she asks.

He follows her voice into the kitchen and leans against the doorway. “Finish up school. What else would I do?”

“No, I mean—like, without Rachel. Are you going to keep this place or what? I mean, it’s pretty awesome but I gotta think the rent is a little crazy.”

Kurt scuffs his feet against the floor and dips his head. “Blaine…”

Santana pours her vodka and almost misses the cup. “Kurt."

“He doesn’t get along with his roommate—”

“ _No_ , Kurt.”

“—plus he has a boyfriend! He says he can come up with his half of the rent, so who am I to refuse?”

Santana looks at her drink, looks at Kurt, and passes the cup to him. “I don’t know, Kurt, maybe a sane person? You guys got so _bad_.”

He takes a long swig of his drink and winces. He should know by now that Santana Lopez doesn’t make drinks for pussies. “Yes, but—”

“No buts, Kurt,” she interjects. “I’m talking Rachel and Finn bad. I spent almost my entire Christmas break consoling the two of you _and_ somehow finding a way to spend time with my insanely hot, also needy girlfriend. I’m not going to do it again.”

“Who says you’d have to?”

“Well, since you won’t be able to go prancing into Rachel’s room and flop dramatically on her bed—”

“ _Excuse_ you.”

“You know you’d be calling me sooner or later.” Santana puts her drink on the table and places a comforting hand on Kurt’s arm. “Listen up, Julie Andrews. I know Blaine is a dreamboat with deer eyes and a smile that cheers up even babies, but he is not good for you. You guys get creepy codependent and married and suddenly he’s wearing more vests than Mr. Schue and you’re one ascot and a Chihuahua away from being Nathan Lane. Really, Kurt— _Nathan Lane_ can barely pull off Nathan Lane.”

Santana ignores the way he rolls his eyes. She brings both hands up to Kurt’s face and squeezes his cheeks until he looks like a squashed pufferfish.

“You, Kurt Hummel, are better than Nathan Lane. You deserve more than Burt Reynolds’s mutant chipmunk-baby. You with me?”

Kurt stares at her for a long moment before slowly prying her hands away from his face.

“You, Santana Lopez, are _drunk_.”

She scoffs. “I haven’t even started yet.”

“Well then, for fuck’s sake give me that bottle because I’m not letting you start on me.” He whips out his hand and then it’s Santana’s turn to roll her eyes.

“You’re deflecting,” she accuses, waving the bottle of vodka out of reach.

“And you’re a jackass.”

“When _isn’t_ she?” Rachel blurts, clomping into the tiny kitchen. She’s more than a little drunk. “James just got here and Britt and I are bored. What are you talking about?”

“Kurt’s getting back together with Blaine,” Santana says bluntly. It’s mostly a lie, but she still worries.

“Oh, fuck.”

Santana isn’t sure which one of them says it, but soon they’re yelling at each other and it’s hilarious, like watching two psychotic cats try and tell each other why the other one is amazing while simultaneously asserting their superiority. Brittany and James follow the ruckus and then everyone is loud and laughing. Blaine is forgotten; Broadway can be discussed another day; Santana doesn’t feel so lost.

This is the point of the night where there really is only one way to respond to anything.

(The answer, of course, is always “More vodka.”)

/

It’s around one in the morning, six hours before they have to wake up, that the night takes a high school turn. They’ve almost run out of alcohol (at least the kind that they like) and they’ve gone through just about every bad movie that Rachel owns. They didn’t even attempt to pick apart Kurt’s movies or they’d have ended up watching the whole collection.

It’s been nice, Santana thinks, catching up with James. And it certainly isn’t hard to miss the looks he throws Rachel when she’s not looking. Santana is pretty sure she wouldn’t notice even if she was looking, which is kind of tragic. She’s a sophisticated, smart, driven woman, but Rachel Berry is an idiot when it comes to her love life.

Santana spends a good hour and a half in a drunken haze just watching everyone. James and Rachel are paired up for beer pong and losing badly. Santana could have told them that; Brittany is a shark when it comes to any sport involving a ping pong ball. There are more of those than you’d think and Santana knows because she’s lost them all.

Brittany arcs the winning shot gracefully into the last cup and groans of failure erupt from James and Rachel. Kurt slips away quietly, leaving the losing team to (unsuccessfully) deny Brittany’s offers of what little booze remains. He slumps onto the couch next to Santana and exhales a really, really rank sigh.

“Gross,” Santana says, turning her face. “Get your booze-mouth away from me.”

“Like you’re any better,” he scoffs. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Santana leans her cheek against the arm of the sofa. “Just watching.”

“You mean ogling?”

“You’re all hot; I can’t help it.” She waves a flippant hand.

“I’m sorry— _all_ of us? How much vodka have you had?”

Santana flips her chin up toward where James and Rachel are standing. “How long has he had the hots for her?”

“Oh, please.” Kurt rolls his eyes. “For-ever. Boy’s got it bad and she has absolutely no idea.”

“Who’s got no idea about what?” Brittany asks, plopping in front of Santana on the floor. The half-filled bottle of rum thunks weightily on the carpet. She leans up for a kiss and Santana stays for two.

“Rachel,” Santana answers. “About James.”

“Oh,” Brittany nods knowingly. “They’d make really pretty babies. Like honey and chocolate.”

Santana laughs and shoves Brittany’s head lightly. It’s all she can do, really, when her arm feels like it’s dragging bricks every time she lifts it.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Brittany calls out. It takes James and Rachel a second to realize they’re being addressed. “Come help us finish off the rum.”

“I think we’ve had quite enough,” Rachel slurs.

“It’s a symbol,” Brittany continues. “You can’t leave it.”

“A symbol of what?”

“A symbol of us being fucking drunk,” Santana answers loudly. “Get your ass over here and drink the goddamn rum.”

James laughs and gives Rachel a little push. They join Brittany on the floor and smile when she hands over the bottle.

“If it’s symbolic,” Rachel says, and Santana curses Brittany for using that word because you never talk about symbols or metaphors around a theater major, “then I think we should drink it symbolically.”

“What, are we gonna sniff it through our noses with a sacred straw?” Santana retorts. It’s a good few minutes before people stop laughing enough to let Rachel speak again.

“ _No_ , I just think that if this bottle of rum means something, we should drink it in a way that means something.”

“That’s the exact same thing you just said but with different words,” Brittany points out.

“I am pro- _posing_ ,” Rachel says between hiccups, “an altered game of Truth or Dare. No dares, but we all ask each other questions.”

“So…Truth,” Kurt deadpans.

“However,” Rachel continues, “if the group decides that someone has answered a question insufficiently”—it takes three tries to get that word out and Santana smiles—“then that person has to take a drink.”

“That’s bullshit,” Santana blurts. “Completely subjective. How are you supposed to judge an insufficient answer?”

“I know the three of you better than I know anyone else. Play the _fucking_ game, Santana,” she smirks.

“Fine, whatever. I’ve got a question for you.” She sits up straight and grins the Santana Lopez-smile that always made Rachel’s eyes widen. Judging by the Bambi impression that Rachel’s affecting, she’s still got it. “Out of everyone here, how many of them have you had sex dreams about?”

“None,” Rachel answers a little too quickly.

“ _Drink!_ ” three voices echo.

“Okay, one!” Rachel amends.

“Still lying,” Santana teases. “And that earns you another drink.”

“It does not!” Rachel whines.

“These are your rules, Berry. If you don’t answer the question, I’m gonna make you chug the whole bottle.”

“Fine! All four of you! I can’t help what my brain comes up with when it’s under the influence of alcohol and other questionable substances!” Rachel yells. She yanks the bottle from Brittany and takes a long swig, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She hangs her head like a kicked puppy.

Santana laughs anyway. “Classic.”

“Well what about you?” Rachel fires back. “How many of us have _you_ had sex dreams about?”

“Three,” Santana says confidently. Rachel bugs her eyes out. “What? Britt’s hot, you’ve got legs, and if Kurt had long hair and you squinted hard enough he’d look like Mila Kunis.”

“Why thank you, Santana.”

“No problem, Jackie.” Santana pats his knee and ignores Rachel’s glare.

The only problem with targeting Rachel is that Rachel targets her back, and she asks really annoying questions. Kurt and James barely have to drink when Rachel is asking her which of Rachel’s songs she liked best in Glee or could Santana please tell the rest of the group about the time she caught her singing and dancing along to _Grease_ , alone in her bedroom, for all she was worth. Santana’s first response to all of these questions is to tell Rachel to shut up, which is always an insufficient answer. She ends up drinking a quarter of what’s left by herself.

Things calm down, though, and they settle into a nice rhythm of secret-sharing. Kurt tells them he knew his relationship with Blaine was going to end about two months into it. James says that sometimes, in fits of fantasy, he dreams of being an architect. But he had an accident as a kid that screwed up the tendons in his hand and he wouldn’t be able to hold a pen long enough to complete a blueprint. Brittany reveals that she almost flunked out of junior year in high school, but that Sue had gotten her tested for dyslexia and saved her GPA.

No one really asks Santana anything more because she got all of her skeletons out in the open during high school. She and Brittany tell each other everything, and Kurt and Rachel think they already know all of her scandalous secrets. (The scandal is that they don’t.) Santana smiles and half-listens to the rest of them, taking Brittany’s drinks because her girlfriend is about to topple over.

It’s James, the mostly-unknown entity, who turns attention back to her. Santana wishes that he wouldn’t; she’s at the point of drunk where she really has no control over what she might say, and not in the hilariously-tipsy way. She’s pretty sure that even if she wanted to stop herself from going too far, she couldn’t. So Santana focuses on James and hopes that he doesn’t ask anything too hard.

“Why’d you leave New York?”

“Easy. Because I quit school.”

“You didn’t have to leave New York though,” James points out. “You could have stayed.”

“No, I couldn’t. Brittany had a job in LA. I had to go.”

James shakes his head and Santana doesn’t understand. She’s provided more than adequate answers. “You didn’t, though. I was there for some of your shows, remember? The ones you beat out even Rachel for? You love New York.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Santana blurts gracelessly. “I love Brittany more. We’ve got a perfectly easy, settled life in Cali.”

“You miss it, though.”

It isn’t a question but Santana still can’t pass it up. In the morning, she’ll wish she had. “Do I miss getting rejected? All the pressure to learn dance steps and songs that I’m going to forget as soon as the show’s over? Do I miss being on the stage and appreciated and dreaming and wanting stuff? I don’t need to want anything. I’ve got Brittany and California.”

“You don’t have dreams anymore?” Brittany asks quietly.

“Why would I need them? You’re my dream, baby. It’s the same for you, right?”

It’s an absolutely sufficient answer. If they’d been anyone else’s words, the three solemn people looking at her would have been laughing and moving onto the next question. But they aren’t, and Santana drinks anyway.

She finishes the bottle because of the look on Brittany’s face.

(She apologizes later, says that she didn’t mean to hurt Brittany at all and she misunderstood the question and you know how I get when I drink that much. Of course I think and dream about our future and I love you so much; you know that, right? I’m really sorry.

But by the way Brittany’s smile isn’t as big as when she really believes something, Santana can tell that she doesn’t completely buy it.

They both know she didn’t ever say she didn’t mean it all).

* * *

 

Sam picks them up at the airport when they get back home and they’re all smiles for him. They double date with him and Mercedes and it’s nice to laugh with friends.

But Brittany holes herself off at her dance studio, and for the first time in a while, Santana is the one who stays up waiting for her to come home.


	4. constant conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Santana and Mercedes sing is "When I Need You" by Leo Sayers.

Trashy reality television, Santana thinks, could cure anything. It’s always an ego boost to watch the exact kind of people you know you’ll always be better than. Santana uses people like Snooki and the Kardashians as actual benchmarks for success: she might not be living up to her full potential, but at least she’s not _them_. Santana loves watching reality shows mostly because she doesn’t have to think about anything to enjoy them. It’s kind of like being back in high school.

Brittany, however, isn’t a fan. She says they make her sad, especially Santana’s favorite. _Dance Moms_ is the ultimate in reality TV. It isn’t pure trash like any of the _Real Housewives_ shows, but it’s just implausible enough not to be real either. But Brittany hates Abby Lee, like, a ridiculous amount, and she feels really bad for all of the kids. Santana tries to tell her that Maddie is special and reminds her of Brittany and that’s the real reason she loves it, but all she gets in response is that Abby Lee is everything that’s wrong with the dance industry.

So she watches it with Mercedes every week instead. They spend most of their time talking: about Sam, about Brittany, about their friends. It’s a nice balance to the time she spends with just Brittany.

But this time Santana doesn’t want to talk about anything. She wants to scarf an entire bag of pita chips and judge all the moms the same way she used to judge Rachel. It’s going pretty well until Mercedes brings up Quinn’s graduation. It’s four days away and Santana is completely dreading it.

“I can’t wait; it’s been too long since I saw everyone,” Mercedes says, chowing down on a handful of popcorn.

“Yeah, it’ll be nice,” Santana says halfheartedly.

“Girl, what is _wrong_ with you? You’ve been Little Miss Blues ever since you got back from New York.”

Santana crunches her chips slowly, feeling them break against her teeth until they’re unrecognizable mush. “Do you really think you’ll get famous?” she asks. Mercedes stops eating. “In your heart of hearts, do you really think you’ll be a platinum artist, or will you just play crappy night clubs forever?”

Mercedes doesn’t answer.

“I just think I might want to do something more,” Santana continues. “When we were at Rachel’s graduation—it was like I just had this vision of me five years from now and I’m still at the bar and Brittany’s at her studio, and when people look at me their eyes say, ‘You could be more.’”

“Nothing wrong with wanting more.”

“I might want to leave LA.”

“Nothing wrong with that, either. You can’t stay in one place forever.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Why are you talking about this with me? This sounds like a conversation you should be having with Brittany.”

Santana’s cheeks flush. “I can’t talk to Brittany about this.”

“Why not? That girl would follow you anywhere.”

“She’s not a dog, Mercedes.”

“Girl, I know that. But look at you—you flew all the way across the country for a job of hers. You know she’d do the same for you.”

“We’re not impulsive college kids anymore, Mercedes. We’re not like Rachel and Kurt who have all the time to do whatever they want. We’ve got jobs, a home, a _life_ here. We’re settled.”

Mercedes gives her a look that says she doesn’t believe a word Santana just said. “You’ve got a lot more living to do before you’re settled, Santana.”

“All I’m saying is we make decisions together. I have to consider Brittany in all of this.”

“Why don’t you let her do that? Maybe she wants a change, too.”

Santana looks down at her bowl of chips. She busies herself with separating them into groups—flat, air bubbles, folded, broken—as she thinks of a response. Mostly she wants four more bags of chips so she can stall forever.

“And what are we supposed to do—pick up our lives every two years for the next exciting place? I don’t want to do that. I like having an apartment and a steady job. I like having a wi— _Brittany_ to come home to.” Santana’s cheeks flush and she shuffles up her chips so she can rearrange them again and maybe Mercedes won’t notice her slip-up.

“Hmm,” Mercedes murmurs. (She noticed.) “I think you’ve got two problems, and they both boil down to the fact that you’re scared of change.”

“I am not—”

“So what you need to _do_ ,” Mercedes presses, “is either commit to performing in some way or marry that girl. Which I think you should do anyway. You wanna be settled? Be settled. But talk to Brittany first.”

The episode of _Dance Moms_ is over and they’re playing a rerun that Santana’s already seen. She’ll have to watch the rest online later.

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

“You got it.”

“What time are you going on tonight?”

“Nine, I think. And you’re joining me for the last set.”

“No, Mercedes, I—”

“Lay off of that Goose you like so much. I need your vocal chords to be honey tonight.”

“I’ll actually charge you for your drinks if you make me sing.”

“I’ll make Sam pay for half of them. You’re singing.”

“Jeez.”

“You hear me?”

Santana shuts off the television and rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll sing.”

* * *

 

The bar is crazy like it always is when Mercedes sings. You’d think it was a Saturday night by the amount of traffic. But Santana is always ten levels of prepared on Tuesdays—partly because there’s a larger crowd anyway, but mostly because Jay is a greedy bastard and right around the time he realized Mercedes was a hit, he instituted $3 Long Island Tuesdays. Shit gets rowdy right around midnight.

The crowd is easily managed before nine, happily sipping their drinks and waiting for Mercedes to show up. Santana is busy making drinks but there are lulls, too, and she takes that time to text Brittany. It starts off as boring conversation— _put carrots on the grocery list, please; okay baby, do you want ranch dressing; not if you’re going to practically drink it like last time_ —but somewhere after ranch dressing they start talking about bunnies and then it’s only fifteen minutes before it gets raunchy. It’s inevitable that texts with Brittany will take a dirty turn because almost everything that comes out of that girl’s mouth is a “That’s what she said” joke, and Santana has never been able to resist.

So when Mercedes finally shows up, Santana’s grinning at her phone. Her emotional state has fallen somewhere between guilt and arousal, which shouldn’t make her smile, but she’s texting Brittany so she can’t really do anything else.

Still, she’s glad for the distraction. The second Mercedes steps up to the mic and drawls her charming hello, people flock to the counter. Santana’s hands fly over liquor bottles and glasses—vodka, gin, tequila, rum, splash of Coke, extra long for the asshole with the spikes. Her night is a flurry of tinkling glasses and wiping up spills. She barely pays attention to Mercedes’s songs, except to rub away a shiver when the girl hits a particularly perfect note. Santana shivers a lot.

Mercedes coaxes Sam up to play guitar sometimes, but mostly he sits at the end of the bar and nurses his gin and tonic—with extra ice because there’s no need to get wasted. Sam’s here every time Mercedes plays and he acts as kind of a bouncer if things get too rough. Jay always gives Mercedes an extra share of the tips for Sam because he’ll never take it for himself.

Before Santana can remember to run away or get into a fight with a really obnoxious drunk guy, Mercedes pulls her up to the stage. Santana sits on her stool and really looks at the people in the bar. It’s easy to get detached when all you’re doing is making drinks. She remembers faces and their preferred spirit of choice, but she doesn’t always think of them as people. White Russian, he’s in the corner talking to Vodka Cranberry That’s Actually a Shirley Temple. (She has a condition but she really likes the bar and Santana won’t ever tell). Whiskey Sour always grumbles in the corner, and Rum and Coke is making a fool out of herself surrounded by Three Jagerbomb Douchebags.

Mostly, the part of the crowd that’s actually here for the show are the quiet thirty-somethings. They’re the ones who order foreign beers and wings and sit at tables instead of the counter. They clap but they don’t yell, and they always tip at least twenty percent. If Santana had her way, she’d make a bar just for these people. These are always the people who have at least one interesting story and enough dreams to go out and make more.

So she calms down a little and jokes with Mercedes. Jay’s behind the counter and Sam’s got his eye on the patrons and most of the unruly ones are leaving to find another bar anyway. It’s late. She and Mercedes run through a couple classics and it’s really nice. It’s like being in Glee again, or the Troubletones when they weren’t killing themselves coming up with a mash-up. Sometimes during practice they’d just riff together, and Santana was always surprised by how well their voices blended.

The crowd thins and Santana and Mercedes spend more time talking and telling stories. Between the two of them, they’ve got a lot of stories.

“Oh, that makes me think of when we played in New York. You remember that, Santana?”

“Yeah,” Santana chuckles. “Yeah, I remember.” She’s laughing because Mercedes is talking about Nationals junior year of high school.

(Here’s a thing that the audience doesn’t know but Santana does: most of the stories that Mercedes tells are complete bullshit. Sure, she’s got some real ones, like how she spent her first year in LA getting scammed by every record “producer” that offered her a contract. But she talks about Glee performances like they’re legitimate shows, only she’s got that Mavis Staples, Aretha Franklin “don’t-test-me” vibe and no one ever checks out the facts. They just eat it all up like she’s Jesus and they’re just ready to be converted.)

“I bet you guys don’t know that Santana here used to live in New York,” Mercedes says to the audience. She’s a natural ham, this girl. “Had some parts in a couple shows, right? Why’d you leave?”

“Couldn’t stand the Broadway divas,” Santana answers, sliding closer to the microphone. “I got in a few too many arguments.”

“Girl, there are divas all up and down both coasts of this country.”

“Yeah,” Santana smirks. “But at least you can make money off of fighting with the Hollywood ones.”

Behind her, the drummer taps a _ba-dum-chh_ and the audience laughs appreciatively.

(Santana’s pretty good at bullshitting on stage, too. She’s happy to play the one with sarcastic zingers. Otherwise she’d have everyone sobbing into their drinks after two songs, and no one needs to see that).

“I think we’ve got time for one more,” Mercedes announces. She turns to Santana and winks. “Broadway’s choice.”

Santana rolls her eyes and finds Sam in the crowd. If she’s going to do this, she’s dragging everyone down with her.

“Well, then I’m calling in the troops on this one. Sammy Boy!” He groans and shakes his hands in protest. “Yeees, yes, get up here,” she wheedles. “And bring your sad axe with you!” He finally smiles his purposefully-bashful smile (because everyone knew he’d cave eventually) and joins them on stage.

Santana leans away from the mic stand, taking a quick conference with everyone else. “‘When I Need You,’ down tempo. Definitely not the crappy Celine cover. Pick up the drums after the lead-in, and Mercedes—tight thirds, sevenths on the chorus.”

“Still blue, huh?” Mercedes asks.

“Call it courage to have a talk,” she replies.

The crowd has quieted down in anticipation. Somewhere behind them, a door opens and closes with a quiet thud.

Mercedes turns back toward the audience but Santana grabs Sam’s arm as he slips his guitar over his shoulder. “Your fingers are crying tonight, Sam Evans. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, then he ruffles her hair. She tries her hardest not to smile.

Santana closes her eyes _(and I’m with you)_ through the first verse and she hears the air in the room stop, like everyone in it has taken a collective gasp.

Her pulse slows, the song slows, the world slows to lazy revolutions, slow enough for everyone to feel them.

_(All that I so want to give you, it’s only a heartbeat away)._

When Santana opens her eyes, it’s true. There’s a lot you can shove into a space the size of a heartbeat, and it’s all hanging in the air between her eyes and Brittany’s. Brittany, who’s supposed to be at home sleeping. Brittany, who should be sitting down, resting her tired feet, instead of standing propped up against a pillar to Santana’s left (the one she can see the best from her stool).

She takes a break, lets Sam have a guitar solo. Focuses on the ache in his strings and doesn’t look Brittany in the eye at all.

_(I never knew there was so much love)._

Sam sinks back into the rhythm, Mercedes trills high and waits for Santana to find them again. She closes her eyes again _(it’s cold out)_ and she knows she has to make a decision _(but hold out)_ and she’ll have to look Brittany in the eye when she does _(and do like I do)._

Santana sings and wonders if she could live on telephones and emails and dreams—mostly dreams _(keeping me warm night and day)._ She wonders if she wouldn’t just long for the coldness of shared yearning.

By the time the song is over, Brittany has found her way to the front of the crowd and Santana doesn’t really know what she’s dreaming of more.

_(Oh, I need you darling.)_

* * *

 

“How’d you get here?”

“Julia dropped me off.”

“No, I mean—”

“Mercedes.”

“Ah.”

It’s almost three and Jay let her off early even though she’d much rather be cleaning. Brittany’s got her sad smile on and Santana knows that she intends on having a talk when they get home because Brittany didn’t offer to help with the bar like she usually does.

“You sounded really good tonight,” Brittany says, yet again.

Santana smiles, just like she has every other time. She can’t help it. “You’ve only said that, like, a hundred times.”

“Well, I meant it a hundred times.”

Santana unlocks the car and holds open the passenger door. “Thanks, Britt.”

The drive home is short and quiet, both outside and inside the car. It doesn’t really matter how big or populated a city is—there’s always a lull around three in the morning. Streets are deserted and empty trash bags flutter in the breeze. Santana wonders how many pretentious coming-of-age novels have been written on that image alone.

Brittany leans her head up against the window and closes her eyes, and Santana thinks that she must have a good reason for staying up so late because she looks like she could sleep for days. That thought just makes her ease up on the gas pedal. Maybe if she drives slow enough Brittany will just pass out and Santana can carry her inside and they won’t ever have to talk about this.

“Your car smells like beer,” Brittany mumbles.

Or maybe not.

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you work at a bar. We’re home, baby.”

“Okay.”

They get out of the car and the first thing Santana does when she gets inside is take off her shirt. Brittany is already holding out the clean one she keeps by the door. They interact without looking at each other, without needing to, and that comforts Santana more than anything else.

“So, Julia was telling me that Lady Gaga’s in town and looking for dancers.”

Santana pulls the new shirt over her head and shakes her hair to get rid of static. “Really?”

“Yeah, she’s holding auditions sometime next week.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah. I think it’s after Quinn’s graduation, so we’d be back in time.”

“Well that’s great for Julia. I know she’d really appreciate having you there to support her.”

“What? No, I meant—” She fixes Santana with a hard look as she slips off her shoes. “Yeah, it is great, I guess. Because I’m so good at being supportive, right? I need to brush my teeth.” She whips past Santana, stirring the air into an angry breeze that charges at her face and forces her eyes closed.

“Britt?” She follows in Brittany’s wake and finds her in the bathroom, practically twisting the faucet out of place she’s turning the cold water on so vehemently. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you think that maybe I wasn’t mentioning it for Julia? Just because you don’t have dreams anymore doesn’t mean I feel the same way.”

“I do have dreams,” Santana counters, crossing her arms. “I have big dreams for us.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Brittany sprays toothpaste with her words and this has always been the thing about arguing with her: sometimes it’s funny. Like, really hilariously funny, but Brittany always hates it when she laughs and Santana hates that because sometimes it feels like Brittany is a little stifling. Like she’s better at feelings because she was so collected in high school and Santana was so _not_. Sometimes it feels like Brittany is automatically right when it comes to feelings that Santana changes hers. But it makes Santana so angry because emotions shouldn’t be a competition and even though Brittany isn’t making it one on purpose, it still feels like she’s winning. So sometimes Santana laughs.

“Well?”

This time, however, Santana doesn’t.

“I have this dream of us in a giant house. There’s a studio for you to dance in and a huge kitchen and maybe a couple of cats, except I get to help pick them out this time so we don’t get any like Tubbs.”

“Uh huh.” Brittany spits out her mouthful of toothpaste and her voice is calmer when she comes back up. “And what about you? What about _your_ dreams?”

“I just told you. Those are my dreams.”

Brittany puts her toothbrush back in its holder and looks at Santana with her puppy-dog eyes, the ones she always gets when she thinks Santana needs some emotional enlightenment.

Santana feels like laughing.

“No, honey,” Brittany says. “Those are _our_ dreams. I mean your dreams, the dreams you dream about your life. The ones that don’t include me.”

“But—”

“Like, it’s always been one of my dreams to go on tour with someone famous.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Brittany murmurs. “Oh.”

“You have dreams that don’t include me?” Santana blurts, and as soon as she does she knows it was the wrong thing to say.

“God, Santana, were you even listening?”

“Of course I was; I very clearly heard you say that you had dreams that didn’t have me in them.”

“Yes, I did. I’m not the smartest person in the world, but I’m pretty sure that’s called ambition. You used to have some in high school.”

“Oh, don’t try to out-bitch me, Brittany,” Santana says, rolling her eyes. “What are you getting so mad for, anyway? This was all you wanted back in high school, for me to think about us. Now I finally am and you tell me I shouldn’t.”

“You’re twisting my words, Santana. I love that you think about us. I think about us, too. But I don’t want you to forget about yourself.”

“I’m not forgetting about myself. Sometimes my dreams and our dreams are the same thing. Don’t make it a bigger deal than it really is. Jeez.”

“I won’t make it a big deal if you won’t diminish it.”

Santana does laugh this time, only it’s bitter and harsh, like the sour taste of coffee when it comes back up. “You know, for someone who wanted me to get in touch with my emotional side for so long, you do a really good job of imposing your feelings onto mine.” She vaults herself off the wall she’s been leaning against and looks at Brittany, who doesn’t move an inch.

“I’m going for a smoke,” she says, and she doesn’t stay to hear the answer.

/

It’s nights like these where it would be really convenient to have a friend in Australia or Japan or somewhere like that. It’s always easier when the friend with the problems lives in an earlier time zone. As it stands, however, she’s either waking someone up at 5:15 or 6:15.

Santana paces the sidewalk in front of their building and dials Quinn’s number. As much as she loves Rachel, she’s a bit much to handle and Santana needs Quinn’s tough love.

The phone, to her surprise, only rings once before Quinn picks up.

“Hi,” she mumbles.

“Were you already awake?” Santana asks. “I thought you were done with classes.”

“I am. I’m writing.”

“Ah, what have you changed the title to this week? _The Grey Umbrella that Wanted to be Yellow? Puddles with Percy?_ ”

“Oh, fuck you,” Quinn sneers. “I still can’t come up with a good title, but that’s not what I’m working on.”

“It isn’t?” Santana takes a long drag of her cigarette and leans up against the building, taking in Quinn’s words. Quinn never divides her attention when she’s writing. She may go agonizingly slowly, but she sees a project to the end. “Another book idea?”

“No, um, Rachel and I—”

“Oh yeah,” Santana interrupts. “Billie Holiday.” She expels smoke in a smooth line out of her mouth, away from the phone’s mouthpiece just in case Quinn yells. Quinn hates smoking. “You sound wired. How much have you written?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn sighs. “Fifty pages, maybe?”

“Jesus, Quinn.”

“It’s just a first draft. It’s probably crap anyway.”

“I still think you guys are crazy either way.”

“What time is it? Why did you call me?”

Santana pulls her phone away from her ear and checks the clock. “It’s 3:21 here, so 5:21 for you.”

“Are you smoking?”

“No,” Santana grumbles.

“Liar. What’s wrong?”

Santana scratches her neck, suddenly nervous even though Quinn can’t see her. “Puck’s kind of been Mr. Dad ever since you guys moved out to Chicago, right?”

“Um, yeah, I guess.”

“I mean, he’s got his job schlepping boxes and he takes care of Beth while you’re at school and that’s all he wants.”

“Um—”

“And it’s okay that that’s all he wants, right? I mean, no offense, but Puck isn’t exactly a complicated dude. Give him steady work and people he loves and he’s golden, right? And you don’t need him to want anything else. I mean, there’s nothing wrong at all about being happy with the simple things.”

“I’m going out on a limb and assuming that you’re not really talking about Puck right now.”

“Clever, Fabray.” Santana slides down the wall and takes deep breaths. Quinn just waits. “I don’t know, Quinn, Brittany said this thing that’s just so— _ugh_ ,” she says, and ten minutes later she’s explained everything, all about how Brittany wants her to have dreams and she _does_ have dreams, it’s just that she doesn’t want to tell Brittany about them because what if they don’t come true? Brittany was her dream and the first time she tried to bag that one she fell on her face. So Santana has a thing about failure. What ambitious person doesn’t?

“Santana, I don’t mean to make this short, but—”

“But I should be talking to Brittany about this,” Santana deadpans.

“Well, yeah. Why aren’t you?”

“You know how sometimes Brittany does stuff and it’s adorable but it’s also wrong?”

“I don’t think she’s wrong about this, San.”

“Maybe not,” Santana concedes, “but she definitely isn’t entertaining the possibility that I might be even a little bit right.”

“Well neither are you,” Quinn points out.

“Because I’m tired of deflecting to Brittany when it comes to feelings. I have valid ones, too.”

“Well, complaining to me isn’t making them valid. You can’t have it both ways, Santana.”

“I’m not trying to have it both ways. I just want it—”

“Your way?” Quinn finishes. “Come on, Santana.” Neither of them says anything for a long moment. “Look, if you really want to do something about this without telling Brittany everything, go sniff around some theaters. Talk to Jay or Mercedes. Focus on one thing that grabs you, and just let Brittany know what you’re doing. You don’t have to spill it all. But if you’re going to focus on sharing your life with her, you have to share at least some of your feelings, too.”

“Oh god, go to bed, Quinn. You’re getting all sentimental and cheesy.”

“Can’t help it; I’m writing about the blues.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

“Eat a mint before you go talk to Brittany again. I can smell your breath from here.”

“Love you, too.”

Santana stubs her cigarette against the brick and cranes her head up—there’s a light on in their bedroom. Brittany is waiting for her and she doesn’t know how to feel about that.

She heads into the bathroom first, knocks back some mouthwash and splashes water on her face. From the mirror she can see Brittany sitting on their bed, eyes focused on a book (but her fingers never turn the page).

“Hey,” she says as she sits down on the bed.

“Hi,” Brittany replies. “Have a good smoke?”

“I guess,” Santana shrugs. “Sorry about earlier.”

“Thanks.” Brittany puts down her book and Santana takes her free hand.

“I do have dreams, you know. Honestly. I just—sometimes I think if I talk about them I’ll jinx them.”

Brittany smiles and shakes her head and it’s like Santana’s just flooded with a sense of calm. Like Brittany’s lips send out waves of satin and grass and the smell of cookies and Santana just absorbs them. Her skin is a desert and everything about Brittany has always been the oasis.

“I don’t want to jinx them, silly. I want to help you with them.”

Santana smiles and kisses Brittany’s hand because Brittany always means whatever she says, and even when they’re talking about terrifying things like dreams and the future, Santana appreciates it. Brittany’s always been what the shy part of Santana longed for: an honest voice, unfiltered and unapologetic. Santana’s always had the last two down but she skipped over the beginning. Endings were always something she did better.

“The thing is, Britt, I don’t—I don’t need you to always help me. You kind of tend to take over when you help. Sometimes I just need to do things on my own.”

“That’s not fair,” Brittany frowns. “You get to have your dreams but you yell at me for mentioning the audition?”

Santana shakes her head quickly. “No, I wanted to apologize for that. I overreacted. I think it’s a great idea. You’ll totally get it,” she says, and she means it when she smiles.

“Yeah?” Brittany grins.

“Yeah.”

Brittany smiles wider and leans up for a kiss. Her left hand squeezes Santana’s right involuntarily and that only makes Santana kiss back harder.

“You have to tell me what you’re thinking though, San,” Brittany whispers, breathlessly, when they pull apart. “I don’t like it when you shut me out.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize. Just don’t do it.” Santana nods against Brittany’s forehead and kisses her on the nose. Brittany smiles like she always does.

“So what do you want to do?” Brittany asks.

It’s a logical question, considering what they’ve been talking about, and it’s a simple one. This is the perfect chance to let it all out. She thinks back to Mercedes and Quinn, how it’s so easy for them to tell her to share. They’re sharers. Mercedes couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it and Quinn’s a reformed loner. Santana’s gotten better at the whole sharing thing, but some things are still hard. You can only change so much in four years.

So she really thinks about Brittany’s question. What does she want to do?

 _I want to be in shows again_ , she could say.

 _I was thinking about talking to Jay. Maybe he’d give me a time slot at work_ , she could say.

(But Brittany looks so adorable in her shorts and tank top, eyebrows raised in curiosity as she waits for Santana’s answer, that Santana forgets about all of her normal dreams and goes for the big, top-shelf dream that never really made her sad when she thought about it because achieving it was so far from possible. It was always the dream that she couldn’t touch and never would, but it was nice to imagine anyway. Because that’s what oases are, right? In a world of mediocre, they’re too perfect.)

 _Rachel and Quinn’s idea isn’t really half bad_ , she could say.

“Marry me,” she says instead.


	5. dreams

“What?”

“Um, _please_ marry me?” Santana amends. Brittany is far quieter than Santana ever thought she’d be. She expected face-breaking smiles and maybe a few tears. What she’s getting instead is disbelief and silence.

“You’re not—why are you asking me now?”

Santana squeezes Brittany’s hand and smiles. “I know, I should have asked you years ago,” she jokes. She’s encouraged when Brittany smiles back. “I’ve been pretty distant and weird lately, I know. And I don’t want you to think that I’m asking you to marry me because we’ve just had a fight and this is a good way to fix things because that’s not it _at all_. I’m asking you to marry me because I want to marry you. Because I’ve been thinking about this for weeks—actually…”

She lunges across Brittany because they’re sitting on the wrong sides of the bed and digs into the top drawer of “her” nightstand. She reaches deeper, ignoring the way Brittany’s stomach ripples with every laugh under her, until her hand lands clumsily on the small box in the back. She sits back up and adjusts herself.

Brittany’s face is full of the smiles and tears she was waiting for.

“I know I’m not always the best when it comes to feelings,” Santana continues hoarsely, on the verge of crying herself. “I’ve been really trying to be better at them, only I’ve kind of been trying alone. Because I just want to impress you and show you that I can do something for you on my own, only it kind of sucks. Everything is better when I do it with you, especially feelings. Like, when I’m with you, I don’t have to try so hard. You keep me grounded and you encourage me to be silly. Sometimes I just like to watch you, even when we’re doing normal things, because you see things differently. Like when we go to the movies, I always watch your face because you get so into it and I just know we’re watching two different films. And I don’t know what’s going to happen in our lives, where our dreams will take us, but I know that I can handle anything as long as I’ve got you there to make it special.” She clears her throat and finally opens the box, not bothering to look down because she already knows what’s in it. A sophisticated ring with a simple, just-big-enough stone that glints blue when you turn it in the light. Beautiful and special, just like Brittany.

Santana offers it out to Brittany who just stares at it, eyes shimmering. “Brittany Susan Pierce, I’ve loved you for a long time. Even before you first kissed me, I think, though I wouldn’t have copped to it then.” They both laugh. “And there are a lot of uncertainties about life, but the way I feel about you isn’t one of them. So, please—please stay with me. Forever.”

Brittany nods quickly, still looking down at the ring. “Yeah, okay,” she says with an air of faux nonchalance. “I think I can do that.”

Santana makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. She was hoping for a yes. She was expecting a yes. She just didn’t know how much it would really mean to her when she heard it.

“For crap’s sake, Santana, put the ring on my finger already!” Brittany laughs. Santana joins in and slides it on delicately. It fits perfectly because Santana’s had Brittany’s ring size memorized for three years.

Brittany touches it the minute it’s fully on. Her fingers glide over Santana’s own and it might be the most intimate thing they’ve ever done. Santana doesn’t know if she’s ever felt a more certain sensation of purpose, like of all the right things she’s ever done in her life, this is the most right.

“Santana…”

“Yeah, babe?” Santana flicks her eyes up and Brittany’s not looking at the ring anymore. She’s looking right at her, eyes wet and honest.

“…I have to call my mom!” she squeals.

Santana leans back and drops her mouth open as Brittany runs out of their bedroom. “What, no kiss?”

Brittany peeks her head back in, smiling big enough to make even the grumpiest person happy. “When I kiss you, I don’t plan on ever stopping, and I have to tell my parents sometime.” Santana blushes. “Besides, you have to tell your mom, too.”

Santana grabs her phone from the bedside table and looks at the clock. “Britt, it’s four in the morning.”

“Yeah, _here_ ,” Brittany says, rolling her eyes. “But in Ohio it’s six in the morning on Wednesday, and you know they’ll both be up for work.”

“Okay, okay,” Santana finally relents. “You don’t want to tell them together?”

Brittany bites her lip, eyes cast downward uncertainly. “Um…not really?”

Santana laughs and shakes her head. “It’s okay, baby. I get it. You go into the living room because I know you’re gonna run around or something.”

“Thanks!” Santana laughs and brings up the contact list on her phone. She’s not paying attention so it takes her completely by surprise when Brittany runs back in and gives her a kiss anyway, one that makes her forget her phone number and why she needed it in the first place. “You’re too cute not to kiss,” Brittany says, and then she’s out the door again.

Santana shakes her head and tries to calm her heart before pressing the call button. Her mom _will_ be awake, Brittany was right about that, but she won’t be happy about it.

(A fact that’s proven mere seconds later when her mother huffs into the phone).

“You’re calling so early, Santana. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Is Daddy home?”

“You wouldn’t be asking for your father if something wasn’t wrong.”

“Ma—”

“A mother knows these things, Santana.”

“Mom.”

“Are you dying? Did something happen to Brittany?”

“ _Mami!_ ”

“What?”

“Nothing’s wrong, okay? Is Dad home?”

“No,” her mother sighs. “He’s working an overnight at the hospital. Why?”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll call him later.”

“What is going on, Santana?”

“Brittany and I are engaged!” Santana all but screams. “Jeez, trust a Lopez woman to blow everything out of proportion…” she mutters.

“Santana…” her mother breathes. “Really?”

“Really, Mom.”

“Oh, _mija_ ,” Maribel gushes. “Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you! You have to send me a picture of the ring; I bet Brittany picked out a beautiful one for you.”

“Actually,” Santana laughs, “Brittany hasn’t gotten me a ring yet. I proposed.”

“ _No me mientes_ , Santana Lopez.”

Santana laughs—guffaws, really. “I’m not lying, Ma! Really. I proposed ten minutes ago. Got her a nice rock and everything.”

“Let me talk to Brittany,” her mom says forcefully.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine. Let me go get her.” She scoots off the bed and ventures carefully into the hallway. Who knows where Brittany’s running by now.

But she finds her on the couch instead, talking animatedly with her mom. She’s got her feet propped up on the coffee table. The hand that isn’t holding her phone—her left hand, and Santana thinks it’s good that Brittany’s a righty—is stretched out in front of her, just begging to be admired. Santana is so busy watching her that she probably wouldn’t have said anything if Brittany hadn’t noticed her first.

“Santana!” she squeals. “My mom wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah, mine too,” Santana laughs. “Switch?”

“Kay!” Brittany hands over her phone and takes Santana’s, immediately striking up a conversation with her mom.

Santana is less sure. “Hey, Mrs. P,” she says quietly.

“Santana Lopez,” Mrs. Pierce says through tears, “you call me Meg. We are _family_ now.”

“Okay,” Santana laughs. If she didn’t laugh, she’s pretty sure she’d cry. “Hey, Meg.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you both. I’ve been waiting for this for a couple of years.”

“Yeah, that makes two of us. Actually, three of us. I think Brittany’s been waiting for longer.”

“Too true,” Meg agrees. “You should have heard her the day she came home talking about the angry girl in Ms. Hadley’s geography class. Big case of hero worship, that one.”

“Gross,” Santana says, wrinkling her nose.

“Phil was convinced she’d grow out of it, but mothers know better.” She sniffles and waits for a moment before speaking again, and Santana just knows that this is when moms get all mushy. “Listen, Santana, I know…”

“It’s okay, Mrs—Meg,” Santana interrupts, hoping to save them both the embarrassment. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. I just want you to know, Santana, how proud I am of you and how grateful I am that Brittany has you. I love you like one of my own daughters, honey. You know you can come to me for anything, right?”

“Yeah,” Santana whispers, her throat tight. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay. Just making sure.”

Santana clears her throat. “I’m, uh, I’m gonna give you back to Brittany now.” She makes eye contact with Brittany and motions for them to switch phones again.

“Alright,” Meg says with a soft chuckle. “You girls better visit soon so we can all get a good look at that ring.”

“We’ll try,” Santana says, careful not to make any promises.

“Good. Have a nice day, sweetie. Love you.”

Santana feels her cheeks flush and she smiles shyly at Brittany’s inquisitive eyes. “Love you too, Meg,” she says, and Brittany cracks the widest grin she’s ever seen.

(It’s the first time she’s said it, really, at least to Brittany’s mom. Santana usually passes it off casually, saying things like “Your mom is the best,” or “I love your mom, Britt.” But it’s different when she says it out loud because she knows everyone’s imagining the day when it becomes weirder _not_ to say it.

Santana’s smile is pretty big, too).

“…and you should have seen her when you two had that fight in eighth grade. Oh, she sulked for days. I think you were her first real friend.”

Santana rolls her eyes and tries to fight her smile at the memory of eighth-grade-Brittany, the one who was so enchanting because she was new and surprising and more captivating than Santana was prepared for.

(She remembers that fight, too. Brittany didn’t understand why a couple of guys made fun of them for holding hands—and, more importantly, why Santana let them—and Santana didn’t understand why Brittany didn’t understand.

That’s why she prefers the grown-up versions of Brittany and Santana. They’ve learned.)

“Is this what you and Brittany do when I’m not around? Bring up embarrassing childhood stories?”

“Ah, Santana. I didn’t realize you were back.”

Santana laughs. “Yeah, I’m sneaky like that. And you’re wrong, by the way.”

“About what?”

“Puck was my first real friend. Brittany was always something more.”

“Such a romantic, Santana.”

“No, I just like correcting you.”

“Is this what you do when Brittany’s not around? Annoy me?”

“Yeah, aren’t you used to it by now?”

(Her father used to tell her that she was scarily similar to her mother. She’d roll her eyes, but Santana secretly loved it.)

“Oh, Santana, I miss you,” her mother laughs wistfully.

“We’ll be in Chicago soon, Ma. Are you sure you can’t come up for a day—a couple hours, even?”

“I’ll see what I can do about my schedule. I’m sure there’s something on Sunday that’s less important than my recently-engaged daughter.”

“I think I should be offended at the implication that there _isn’t_.”

“I’m a very busy woman, Santana,” Maribel says, and they both know she’s kidding around. She sighs, long and still tinged with sleep. “Alright, I have to get ready for work. Thank you in advance for all the bragging I get to do today.”

“You’re welcome,” Santana chuckles. “Don’t tell Dad yet, though.”

“I won’t. _Te amo, mija_.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Brittany is there when she turns around, wiping her eyes, and she almost jumps out of her skin.

“Jesus, Britt!”

“Hi,” Brittany giggles.

Santana cocks her head, a lazy smirk making its way across her face. “Hi.”

“Hi, _fiancée_ ,” Brittany says.

“Well, hey there,” Santana replies, grinning like an idiot. She reaches to pull Brittany into a hug but Brittany lands on her wrist first, spinning her under her fingers like they’re dancing, and Santana supposes that they are because Brittany’s kind of always dancing. She laughs as Brittany twirls and dips her, and suddenly they’re hugging like she originally intended. Santana buries her face in Brittany’s neck as they sway. Their soundtrack tonight is a gentle wind, the first cars waking up, trucks downshifting and crashing over potholes. That’s what makes them special, Santana thinks. Everyone else hears the sounds of the real world and they groan, but she and Brittany smile at the 70-piece orchestra serenading them. There is music—all the time. It’s just _their_ music.

“Hi,” Brittany repeats once again, almost a whisper this time, her chin knocking into Santana’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Santana murmurs, her lips humming against Brittany’s neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Brittany chokes out.

Santana pulls away and looks at Brittany, skimming her hands up and down her arms. “Are you okay, baby? Did I overwhelm you?”

“Yeah,” Brittany says, wiping at her eyes. “But it was kind of nice.”

“Well, that’s what I was going for.” Santana winks.

Brittany smiles and leans so close that Santana can see every freckle on her face. She tried counting them once and got all the way up to a hundred and twelve before Brittany woke up.

But this time Brittany finds her with lips first and Santana closes her eyes because kisses with Brittany are things she should feel rather than see. She kept her eyes open the first few times they kissed because she was so shocked and sure that someone would bust them. But then one day she sighed and let her mind wander, and the rest is history.

It’s always the same, kissing Brittany, because even when she was fourteen and completely oblivious, there was this sense of calm and belonging. Like her heart was gooey cake batter and when she kissed Brittany, it just settled perfectly into the pan. And they’ve never lost it, not when their kisses are hungry or slow or angry or just a peck before work. It’s like the rest of the time, the world is just stirring Santana’s skin in every direction. And it’s not always bad. But with Brittany, it’s always still and peaceful.

And she can never get enough of it, so she just keeps kissing her.

Mostly what registers in Santana’s mind is made out of pictures and big, swooping lines of color. The way Brittany hooks her hands at the small of Santana’s back, it’s like this big splotch of soothing green, and the red of how Santana’s heart speeds up every time they kiss mixes with the blue of what she’s pretty sure are both of their tears and it’s just like some guy is going apeshit with the kind of purple you see at sunset. Or maybe he’s throwing grapes at a wall and you walk by and you don’t know why you stop to stare, but you do know you’re watching something beautiful.

(There’s always been this unidentifiable thing about Brittany, about the way they work. It’s like Santana’s vocabulary falls just short of describing things the way they are so she has to rely on kisses and hugs and everything her body says better.

Maybe Brittany’s always just been too perfect for words, in both a literal and figurative sense).

Brittany’s hands start wandering and Santana smiles because this is when they both become painters. The green spreads up her collarbone until it blurs into the navy of Brittany’s tickling fingers, tinged with pink when she dances them across Santana’s stomach. She retaliates with streaks of red—fire red, desert sun red, _that dress_ red—down Brittany’s back, and Santana is really glad their sheets are white. They’re her favorite canvas.

She’s the one to carry Brittany bridal-style into their room because she knows she won’t get to on their actual wedding day. They’re laughing the whole way and Brittany plays with her hair and a part of Santana wants to just get back in bed and fall asleep with her head against Brittany’s chest so she doesn’t ever have to stop.

But the other part, that’s the one that catches how Brittany’s shoulder glows in the dim morning light, and suddenly Santana needs to see every bit of Brittany’s skin.

Santana deposits Brittany on the bed. She scoots toward the pillows as Brittany perches on the edge, staring intently out the window.

“It isn’t a dream, is it?” she asks quietly.

“What isn’t?”

“Tonight,” Brittany clarifies. “Because, like, this is that time of night when I wake up sometimes and I’m not sure where I am because I was chasing fish in my dreams but then a car honks and I’m not in the ocean anymore, I’m next to you. Which is better than a dream, but it’s still kind of confusing.”

“It isn’t a dream, Britt,” Santana says. She slides forward on the bed until she’s flush against Brittany’s back. She hooks her legs over Brittany’s and smooths back her hair, kissing the bend of skin where her neck meets her shoulder. Brittany relaxes back into her touch.

“You’ve got a ring on your finger and I gave it to you and if you really want to, we can stay awake until the sun comes up and you believe it.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Santana whispers, smiling. “Come here, baby.”

Brittany turns around and kisses her again, slow and deep like she was waiting for. She slips off Santana’s smoke-saturated shirt at the same pace. Santana wouldn’t ever give up the furious frenzy of passionate sex with Brittany, but nothing compares to the way Brittany cherishes her when they’re gentle. She only hopes that she can return the favor half as much.

“I really love you, Santana,” Brittany mumbles into her chest. It hums just as much as her heartbeat and Santana thinks she might even like it better.

“I know, Britt. I really love you, too.”

“No, I _really_ love you,” Brittany emphasizes.

“I _know_ , Britt.”

“No—”

“Baby.” Santana grabs Brittany’s hands because she’s starting to look almost angry. “Show me, okay? Just show me.”

Brittany breathes and nods, and she’s got this look in her eyes that Santana hasn’t seen before. So she just watches her as she methodically takes off her shirt and shorts, slips off both of their bras and underwear. Santana watches her, eyes wide and a little wary, as Brittany guides her down onto the bed. Brittany isn’t blinking either. She looks more determined than Santana’s ever seen her.

Sure, Santana knows what a determined Brittany looks like. She spent a lot of high school determined to get Santana, to make her see sense. Santana has seen her when she’s determined to win, either with the Cheerios or Glee. And good god, that girl has some _very_ determined fingers in the early hours of the morning.

But this look, it’s like Brittany is determined just to love her.

Santana’s hovering on tears and Brittany hasn’t even touched her yet.

She’s expecting more kisses. What she gets instead is Brittany’s hair under her chin, fanning out into her own personal cornfield as Brittany’s lips trail down her chest and plant more seeds under her breasts, over her heart, in the valley of her stomach. Brittany laces their fingers together and pushes Santana’s hands into the mattress, and Santana can’t decide if she should push back or just let Brittany overwhelm her.

(Because it is overwhelming, what Brittany’s doing right now. It’s like, ever since they first met, Brittany has always been this scientific marvel. She’s this nonnative flower, an introduced species that Santana would have called invasive when she was sixteen. And maybe she still is invasive, but it’s a kind of invasion to which Santana will gladly surrender.)

“Britt,” she sighs. There aren’t even words for the colors she’s feeling right now. Brittany always strips her down to something more elemental than the curves and lines of letters.

But Brittany doesn’t say anything. She keeps going like she hasn’t heard anything Santana said. She kisses every bit of Santana that she can reach, sucking at her breasts until she leaves marks that are far deeper than the bruises that form. Brittany finds every part of her and finds it so well that Santana is pretty sure she’s just had her DNA restructured.

Brittany continues downward and Santana is almost embarrassed at what she’ll find when she settles.

(It’s banal to say this is the most turned on she’s ever been, but it’s the truth).

Brittany finds her legs and spreads them with calming fingers, soothing palms. Her tongue is hot and confident and Santana isn’t sure if she’s actually feeling these things or if she’s just imagining them. It feels too good. Brittany is hot chocolate-warm, honey-smooth, heartbreak-real.

It isn’t the first time Santana cries when she comes, but it feels like it.

* * *

 

“You can put it in my purse, Britt.”

“Are you sure it doesn’t have a hole?”

“So put it in your pocket then.”

“But I’ll have to take it out for security and then they’ll see!”

“I thought that was the point?”

“Well yeah, but not _yet_.”

Santana turns her head as a car honks outside. “Look, they’re here and we’re running a little late anyway.” She holds her hand out for Brittany’s ring. “I’ll put it back in its box and you can zip it up in your carry-on or whatever.”

Brittany smiles at that. “Okay,” she agrees.

(Brittany has this idea that they can’t tell anyone about their engagement yet, even though they’re both really itching to. It sort of makes sense, because Sam and Mercedes would find out first, and while Sam’s mouth is actually gigantic, Mercedes’s is figuratively even bigger than that. So they’ve decided to drop it on everyone when they’re all at the hotel. Santana agreed when Brittany suggested it and she is totally capable of keeping her promise.

But it is really, _really_ hard.)

“Okay." Santana does as she said and practically pushes Brittany toward the door. “Let’s go before Mercedes starts yelling.”

Mercedes does seem on the verge of hollering when they step outside, while Sam is leaning, unaffected, against the back of the taxi.

“ _There_ you are!” Mercedes says, motioning for Sam to help with the bags. Santana waves him off and hoists her own into the trunk.

“We’ve got plenty of time, Mercedes. Calm down.”

Mercedes shoots her a scathing look as they all pile into the cab. “If you think I’m gonna be the one to mess up Rachel’s to-the-minute timetable…”

Santana laughs. “Yeah, okay. I’ll give you that.”

It’s a smooth ride to the airport. Brittany grabs her hand just like she did last week when they were on their way to New York. Already her finger looks bare without the ring, and that makes Santana happier than she can really explain. Brittany catches her looking and when she smiles, Santana knows that she’s feeling the same.

They make it through security and they’re at the terminal with half an hour to spare. The longer they sit, the more Santana is sure that their flight is going to be delayed. Sam doesn’t look too content either, but she’s pretty sure that’s because he hates flying. Which makes sense—with lips that big, Santana still wonders sometimes how he manages to function on dry land.

“You guys are so _quiet_!” Mercedes screeches. “Aren’t you excited to see everyone?”

“We saw Rachel and Kurt last week.”

“I’m kinda sleepy.”

“I hate flying.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes.

She rolls them for twenty nine minutes because Sam is sulking and neither Brittany nor Santana are paying much attention to anyone but themselves. Because they’re engaged, right? Who the fuck cares.

Santana isn’t positive, but she’s pretty sure she can feel Mercedes rolling her eyes the entire way to Chicago, too.

/

They have to shake Sam awake at least three times before they get to the baggage claim. Santana and Brittany, they were smart and just brought carry-ons. But Mercedes has more hair product than will fit into all the three-ounce bottles in the world. So she and Sam packed a huge suitcase and of course the belts are malfunctioning, so they’re stuck in the basement of O’Hare for at least twenty unplanned minutes.

Rachel must be having a fit.

Santana looks down at her phone as the neurotic diva in question texts her for the sixth time.

“I swear, Wheezy, there are levels of hell dedicated to the punishment I’m going through right now because of your stupid bag.”

“I can’t help that it broke, Santana.”

“Yeah, well, all I’m saying is _you_ get to be the one who writes Rachel Berry a seven hundred-word apology letter, with appropriate introduction, evidence, and conclusion.”

Brittany nudges her with her shoulder and smiles. “She did not ask for that.”

“ _Dear Santana,_ ” Santana quotes, reading from her phone, “ _I have accounted fifteen minutes of allowance for technical difficulties. Given that you have doubled that acceptable amount, I’d like to request a written explanation and apology._ ”

Brittany cranes her neck to read over her shoulder and barks a laugh. She’s joined by Mercedes a moment later.

“What did you even say to that?” Brittany asks.

“I told her to shove it or I’d let everyone know that she got crazy wasted freshman year and made out with me for at least fifteen minutes.”

Mercedes drops her jaw. “Rachel did _what?_ ”

“Oops.”

“Anybody order a giant suitcase?”

Sam drops it behind them with a proud smile.

Mercedes grills Brittany the entire cab ride about how she could possibly let someone else kiss Santana for that long, and Santana has never, ever been so glad to get to a hotel.

/

They’re the last ones to arrive, of course. Rachel doles out their room keys like they’re fucking tickets to the Oscars. They hang around their rooms long enough to drop their bags off and Brittany takes the opportunity to slip on her ring. They’ve placed bets on who’ll notice first. Brittany’s convinced it’ll be Rachel, but Santana’s got money on Tina for the dark horse. The girl smells weddings like great white sharks smell blood.

The hotel they’re at is pretty swanky, and Kurt has managed to snag them a party room clearly meant for at least forty people. They set up a few makeshift tables and Rachel bullies a waiter into catering solely to them.

No one mentions anything about Brittany’s ring when they toast a celebratory round of champagne. They’re too focused on catching up. Artie is happy, fresh off of a wildly successful final project, beaming and tan from months in the Florida sun. Mike is loving Chicago and Tina has installed herself in real estate. She’s got an uncanny eye for flipping houses.

Mercedes tells everyone about her ever-increasing performances and Sam downplays his multitude of part-time jobs, which bothers Santana. She knows he works harder than probably everyone at the table. Blaine and Kurt babble about their respective college careers, interacting just a little too politely to be comfortable. Mr. Schue and Mrs. Pillsbury are the same as ever, dealing with brats day in and day out that are not nearly as loveable as the group gathered at the table. Mr. Schue had insisted they call him Will for all of two seconds before everyone shot him down. They may have graduated high school, but he will always be dorky Mr. Schue to them.

With all the dramatic flair of a Berry, Rachel takes advantage of the group setting and announces that she has (briefly) abandoned the Broadway spotlight to stay here in the city and write her musical with Quinn, which explains the three suitcases she made the bellhop lug up to her suite. Apparently the guy across the hall from Quinn and Puck was looking for someone to sublet, and Rachel has never been one to pass up a perfect coincidence. She breathes musicals, for god’s sake.

Rachel clearly thinks she holds the market on surprise announcements, but Santana catches a glimpse of the smirk on Mr. Schue’s face, like he knows something no one else does. Santana racks her brain for a few seconds before coming to the conclusion that Mrs. Pillsbury is probably pregnant, and she prepares a few “ _I totally knew_ ” one-liners for when he finally breaks the news.

It’s during a lull in the conversation that it happens.

“I see Emma and I won’t be the only newlyweds for long,” Mr. Schue says, and Santana should have known. This is the guy who jumped into a pool, fully dressed in a suit and top hat, just to propose. He lets it hang for a moment until the first person screeches. So Brittany half-wins, because that person is Rachel.

“Oh my god, who got engaged?!” Rachel looks expectantly at Mike and Tina, who shake their heads vigorously. She switches direction next to Sam and Mercedes, who look just as bewildered as she does.

“Brittany, you have a ring on your finger!” Kurt squeals, and then it’s just chaos. People are asking a thousand questions, passing Brittany’s hand around as if it isn’t still attached to her body and all Santana can do is just laugh.

“Santana, where’s yours?” someone finally asks when the excitement settles down.

“Brittany hasn’t gotten mine yet,” she answers. “I only proposed two days ago.”

Kurt and Rachel high five as everyone else starts digging for their wallets.

“You did not seriously place bets on me and Brittany,” Santana says, rolling her eyes. “What is this, every rom-com ever?”

“Oh, it was during college when you two were even more disgusting than you are now. We were broke college kids; we thought it’d happen a lot sooner than this,” Kurt explains. Santana can’t help laughing. “Wow, I’d forgotten how much we all put in,” he says, counting the winnings.

Santana watches him divide the money into three piles and she has to ask. “Who else won?”

Kurt raises his eyebrows. “Please, like Quinn wasn’t the first one to back you.” He finishes sorting the bills and claps his hands excitedly. “Okay, Brittany, let me see that rock again!” he gushes.

Brittany chatters away and Santana pours them all another round of champagne. She might be rolling her eyes, but the small nod of approval from Mr. Schue and Tina’s teary gaze makes the wait more than worthwhile.

(It’s probably because she’s not talking that she hears him first. Santana wasn’t listening for him at all, but it isn’t hard to notice the way he still fumbles over his words.)

“It’s through here? No, but there isn’t another—oh, I got it. Thanks.”

The door opens and Finn pokes his head in, his face falling at twelve suddenly-quiet people staring back at him. Santana steals a glance at Rachel. She’s completely stunned.

“Um, hi,” Finn finally says, jerking his hand in a stilted half-wave. It’s so dopey and familiar that Santana feels something shift in her chest. She doesn’t harbor any ill will toward Finn. Maybe she’s still bitter sometimes because it was only four years ago and she kind of has a right to be. But she doesn’t really feel anything for him beyond the kind of shallow affection you might feel for a really, really dumb dog. You try to avoid it because you know once you have its attention it won’t ever go away, but you still feel bad when it gets hurt or something.

(Santana might also be unwillingly charmed because his hair is still in a crew cut from his army days, and she’s always had a thing about the military. Basically everyone looks good in wife-beaters and fatigues.)

Sam, ever the diplomat, is the first to get up and greet him. “Good to see you, dude,” he says with a firm handshake and a pat on the back. Kurt and Mr. Schue trail behind him and everyone relaxes a little bit.

Finn drops his still-gargantuan-but-slightly-leaner frame into an empty chair between Kurt and Tina. “So…how’s everyone doing?” he asks awkwardly.

They all look at each other; no one really wants to rehash what they’ve been up to.

“Brittany and Santana got engaged,” Rachel offers. Her eyebrows quirk up as a challenge. Santana is pretty sure that Rachel expects him to fail.

“Oh,” he finally says. He glances between Santana and Brittany, as if trying to decide which of them will react with the least amount of vitriol. He finally decides on Santana, probably because Brittany is staring resolutely at the tablecloth and clenching her fist. “Congratulations, you guys.”

Santana feels Brittany tense next to her and she rests a hand on her thigh under the table. “Thanks, Finn,” she accepts with more grace than she feels.

He nods and smiles with half of his face. “Yeah.” He leans back in his chair and rubs nervously at his arms. “You look good, Rach,” he says sincerely.

Rachel ducks her head and fails to suppress a smile. “Thanks, Finn,” she says, and Santana is already making plans to recruit Quinn for a girl talk later, just to make sure Rachel hasn’t lost her good sense.

It’s still awkward, but it seems like Rachel’s tiny smile has given the rest of the table license to be nice to Finn. Santana watches all of them—she laughs at Sam’s impressions, snickers at Blaine’s ever-present eagerness, tries to hold her wine in when Kurt goes off on a rant too witty for his own good—and she realizes that it never really mattered if they all outwardly liked each other. They’ll still forever be kindred spirits in one way or another.

“I have an idea,” she says when the conversation fades into reflection. “I think, since this is the first time the original New Directions have been reunited since high school, we should give Quinn a song.”

Rachel is immediately snapped out of her reverie. “Santana, why are you only suggesting this _now_? That leaves me very little time to find an appropriate song, not to mention creating arrangements and choreography, and really I think we’ve all had a little too much champagne to be effective.”

“Rachel,” Santana chuckles, “there is no way in _hell_ that we’re performing a new song.” She jerks her head toward Finn. “With as much catching up as he’s just done, Paul Bunyan over here will still be drunk tomorrow. He’ll grow new feet just to trip over them.”

“Well we can’t just _wing it_ ,” Rachel argues. “Did you have a song in mind?”

Santana just smiles.

* * *

 

Including this one, Santana has been to three graduation ceremonies, two of which Quinn has also attended, and neither of them have included Quinn making a speech. Santana feels really let down. She feels so deprived of Quinn’s words—the ones that would have been a little too smart to understand the first time; the ones that would straddle the line between cheese and sentimentality perfectly; the ones that would have her laughing three hours later because Quinn’s words are sneaky and she _just_ got the joke—that she decides to make Quinn give a speech when they go out for dinner later. She plans her hilarious introduction. She plans Rachel’s inevitable input. She plans Brittany’s quiet zinger. She plans everything so fervently that she’s ordering fake meals and drinking fake wine and Brittany has to ask her why she’s laughing to herself.

(Seriously, what else is she supposed to do for three hours if she doesn’t have Quinn’s words to listen to?)

It doesn’t feel as drawn out as Rachel’s graduation ceremony, but maybe that’s just because everyone is here and they managed to find some seats without running into Quinn, Puck, or Beth. Beth was the wild card, really. Santana’s pretty sure there aren’t too many six-year-olds at this thing, which is why she turned away really quickly when she saw a whoosh of blond hair go streaking past. She has no idea whether it was really Beth or not, but better not to take a chance when their surprise is so awesome.

So she sits in the bleachers and texts Quinn misleading messages, like _Wish I could be there_ and _Sorry I can’t watch you walk across the stage and get your super useful English degree!_ Brittany smiles every time Santana snickers because she’s doing the exact same thing.

Santana and Brittany have been recruited to be the ones to find Quinn first, since Quinn will only be half-surprised that they made it down. The only problem is that Quinn could literally be _anywhere_. Santana tries to keep an eagle eye on her when the graduates start filing out, but she loses her really quickly in the crowd.

Ultimately, after fifteen minutes of searching and innumerable texts from Rachel, it’s Puck they spot first because he’s got Beth on his shoulders, and Santana would recognize the pair of them anywhere. She tells Brittany to tell everyone else where they are.

Puck has his back to them and he’s blocking any view Quinn might have as well. As Santana gets closer, she can hear three voices chatting away, and of course Judy would make the trip to Chicago for this. Santana momentarily reevaluates their plan because Judy is still kind of a tightwad and Santana doesn’t know if she’d stop them midway through the performance. But they’re going to be embarrassing Quinn in front of enough people as it is—who gives a shit if her mom is one of them?

“Excuse me, sir” she says in her most official voice as she taps Puck on the bit of shoulder where Beth isn’t in the way, “I have serious concerns about the safety of the child you’re carrying.”

“Shove it, lady; this is my kid,” he says without turning around.

Santana has to hold back a snicker. “Aren’t you a little young to have a child that age?”

“What gives you—” He turns around sharply and almost drops Beth when he realizes who he’s been talking to. “What! How did you guys get here!”

“A plane,” Santana deadpans.

“Auntie Tana, Auntie Britt!” Beth bounces on Puck’s back until he sets her down. She’s flying into Brittany’s arms as soon as she hits the ground.

Santana wraps Quinn in a sideways hug, grinning at the look of complete shock on her face. “Hey there,” she smirks. A few feet away from her, Brittany briefly catches her eye and nods.

“Hi,” Quinn says dumbly.

“Hi,” Santana repeats.

“I just texted you, like, half an hour ago.” Quinn points to her phone as if it’s proof that Santana can’t possibly be standing next to her.

“Yeah, I was in Chicago then, too. This very building, in fact. We thought it might be nice to surprise you.”

(If she strains her ears, she can hear music slowly getting closer.

It is very, very hard to keep a straight face. Santana’s getting soft.)

“‘We’? You and Brittany planned this whole thing?”

“Weeell,” Santana drawls, turning Quinn around and positioning her exactly right, “we might have had a little help from some friends.”

“Who?” Quinn cocks her head and furrows her brows like she used to do when Finn was being two extra helpings of Finn. “Is that Journey?”

“Surprise, Quinn Fabray,” Santana murmurs in her ear. Then she backs up to join the rest of New Directions, who are facing away from Quinn and singing the intro to “Don’t Stop Believing”. Brittany is the only one with her front to Quinn because Santana made her promise to get Quinn’s reactions on video.

(She’ll watch it back later and notice that she and Quinn start to tear up right about the exact same time. There are chills when they finally get into a rhythm and find a melody, and there are pangs of nostalgia when Finn whips around on the first line, followed by Sam and Blaine.

But it’s Rachel who brings the tears, either because she’s so emotional about everything she does or because Quinn’s hand actually flutters near her mouth. It’s unusual to see Quinn Fabray’s composure break. Even when she’s having fun, she’s calculating everything. Santana cries because she’s really glad she got to be a part of something that obviously meant a lot to her.

Santana cries because this feels like the kind of nice that you do for family, and it took watching the video to make her realize how much she’s missed it).

/

Quinn’s dinner is raucous only because there are so many people. Rachel got them a reservation at a nice restaurant, only they neglected to tell her that they only had crappy little round tables, and putting five of those together to accommodate everyone is just not working. So they split off into little groups. Quinn catches up with everyone and Santana—well, Santana just stays away from Finn, just in case. He looks perfectly happy to knock back a few beers with Sam, Puck, and Mr. Schue anyway.

With a glass of wine in her hand and the knowledge that Beth is safe at home, sleeping under the watchful eye of a neighbor, Quinn seems more relaxed. She laughs and jokes all the way to the hotel, where they start up round two of the party, persuading Quinn with lots of rum and the fact that she couldn’t drive home even if she wanted to. But mostly it’s the rum.

People divide quickly again, rehashing old jokes and telling stories that probably didn’t happen exactly the way they tell them. Santana listens as Brittany talks about the upcoming Gaga audition. She soaks up the warm wishes and Santana wonders if she’s doing the same for their wedding.

Santana grabs Quinn and drags her to a couple of chairs that are backed into a corner.

“Is it time for a secret meeting?” Quinn teases as they sit down.

“No,” Santana laughs. “I just wanted to talk to you before Rachel started on another Billie Holiday rant.”

“Oh. Well, those aren’t so bad once you get used to them.”

“Remind me never to get used to them, then.”

Quinn’s smile shifts in a cunning way, and Santana is wary of whatever plan she’s hatching. But either it isn’t formed enough to talk about or Quinn is just drunk enough to mess with her, because she doesn’t say anything until she puts her drink down and motions for Santana to stand up.

“We just sat down,” Santana protests feebly.

“Up, up! Come on.”

Santana gets up with a groan. “Fine, fine.” It takes her a moment to react when Quinn, tipping up slightly, plants a wet, smacking kiss on her forehead and engulfs her in a giant hug.

“What…?”

“You got engaged, Santana Lopez. _You_ proposed to Brittany.”

(There might come a day when the topic of her engagement doesn’t make Santana smile like an idiot.

Today is not that day.)

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

Quinn squeezes her tighter. “I’m proud of you.”

“Look who’s talking, Miss College Graduate.” Quinn blushes. “Got your English degree and now you’re writing a book _and_ a musical.”

“Actually, the book has been shelved for a while,” Quinn says bashfully as she sits down again.

“What? But Percy was just about to get out of his existential crisis!” Santana laughs at how her words might sound to passersby, but she means it. She was really waiting for Percy to finally get his shit together. Like, maybe he could start by changing his name, because what kind of person calls their main character Percy except for Quinn Fabray?

“Exactly. I can’t exactly write his resolution if I’m having an existential crisis of my own.”

Santana waves a hand dismissively. “You’re not having an existential crisis. You’re having a conflict of interest.”

“Ultimately, every problem anyone has is a conflict of interest.”

“Which is no reason to give up on your book.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“I am _drunk_.”

Quinn giggles, which sets Santana off, and they stay like that for a long while.

“Why are you shelving the book, then?” Santana finally asks.

Quinn leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. “Have you ever read something and just completely connected with it? That’s what happened when I picked up Billie Holiday’s autobiography. You know, historians have pretty much determined that most of that book is bullshit, either complete lies or truth that’s been stretched for the sake of good storytelling by William Dufty. And if a lot of historians agree on something, they’re probably right. But I like to pretend that it’s Billie writing it, that these are things she’s actually said and done.”

Quinn talks about her like she’s a character and that’s how Santana knows that she’ll see this thing through to the end, no matter how much Rachel yells or even if it never takes off. Because characters never die until you finish their story, and clearly Quinn has found a piece of Billie Holiday that remains unwritten.

“She’s feisty, you know?” Quinn continues. “There’s this thing she said that really got me hooked. ‘Give me a song I can feel and it’s never work. There are a few songs I feel so much I can’t stand to sing them anymore, but that’s something else again,’” she quotes. “Billie Holiday doesn’t feel like work, S.”

“And your book does?”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods.

“Okay. I can dig that.” She takes a sip of her drink that’s now mostly just melted ice. “You certainly picked a good subject to feel.”

Quinn smiles lazily. “Yeah, Billie’s something else. She’s just…well, you know what I mean.” Santana hums her agreement. “Rachel said you got pretty into it at her graduation. Care to join our exclusive team?” She waggles her eyebrows in what is probably meant to be an enticing way. Instead, it looks like a couple pipe cleaners suddenly got a case of the wiggles.

“I don’t think so,” Santana answers. “I’ve got work and now Britt and the wedding to plan…”

“Yeah, but she’s gonna be on the tour with Lady Gaga.”

“She hasn’t even auditioned yet,” Santana says more defensively than she planned.

Quinn raises her eyebrows in a challenge. This time there is no mistake in the way they move. “You don’t think she’ll get it?”

“I just don’t think we need to be making plans for things that might not even happen.”

“Oh, come on, Santana. This is Brittany and dance. It’s inevitable that she’s going to get it.”

“Newsflash, Q: Los Angeles has a lot of super talented dancers besides Brittany.”

“Yeah, but they’re not all going to audition.”

“It’s Lady Gaga. Of course they are.”

“Why are you being so hostile about this?”

“Do you know how long these artists tour for? Gaga tours for, like, a year and a half. So she’ll go traveling for a few months, come back for a few months, and then leave and start all over again. That sucks.”

“Well, yeah—for _you_. But this is about Brittany.”

“We just got engaged, Quinn. We’re a team now, okay? We can’t just abandon each other.”

“She’s not abandoning you. She’s fulfilling a goal.” Quinn looks at her shrewdly, and Santana quickly averts her eyes. “Did you propose just so she would stay with you?”

Santana narrows her eyes, sets her jaw. “I asked Brittany to marry me because I love her and I don’t know what my life would be like without her.”

“I didn’t hear a ‘no’ in that.”

“Oh, fuck you, Fabray.”

“Santana?”

Santana whips her head around, her face pale and nervous because she’s not sure how much of that Brittany heard. Judging from the small smile, not too much, but even that’s misleading because if she really tries, Brittany can be very good at not revealing anything.

Santana clears her throat and deliberately calms her voice. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna go upstairs and get some sleep but you have both room keys.”

“Ah. Yes, I do.” Santana runs a hand over her pockets until she finds the one with bumps the size of little plastic cards. She hands one to Brittany. “What time is it?”

“A little after two, I think.”

“Yuck.” Santana runs a hand through her hair and smiles tiredly at Brittany. “I’ll be up in a few, okay?”

“Okay,” Brittany smiles back. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Britt.” Even though Santana knows she’s exhausted, Brittany leaves with as much flounce as you can have this late at night.

She and Quinn don’t look at each other for a long time. Sometimes it still takes her by surprise how they can go from jokes and sentiment to biting words in the span of one conversation. They may not be in high school anymore, but things really never change.

“All I’m saying is you have to figure out what feels like work right now, Santana.”

“Work feels like work,” Santana retorts.

Quinn her childish comment and just shakes her head. “Whatever you think you ‘should’ be doing right now—you’re wrong and you know it, even if you don’t want to.”

Santana waits until she’s sure Quinn has left to go upstairs. When she slides into bed, Brittany is warm and sleepy and she wraps an arm around Santana without a second thought.

For those few hours until she has to wake up again, Santana is guilt-free.

/

They meet Santana’s parents for brunch the next day at 11:00. Both Brittany and Santana are nursing killer hangovers, but they’re forgotten when Santana sees her mom smiling like _that_ and her dad on the verge of tears.

When she gets up to hug her dad after the meal is over, it isn’t related to the wedding—like everyone else thinks—and she holds on for far too long.


	6. say you'll go (how)

Brittany practices nonstop almost from the second they get back to LA. Apparently there are two routines that every applicant has to learn and Brittany’s got it on word of mouth that if it’s not perfect, Lady Gaga herself will bite off Brittany’s head and use it as a prop on the actual tour. Santana doesn’t say that as weird as Lady Gaga is, she’s probably not a cannibal. (That’s Ke$ha, only Brittany never freaks out about her). Instead she just makes sure there’s always a fresh pot of coffee on when she leaves the house because that’s when Brittany gets really intense. She does her best not to let Brittany see when she rolls her eyes because the music is too loud. “You don’t dance better if your bones are vibrating,” she wants to say, but Brittany wouldn’t get it because she’s in one of her moods. She just digs her noise-canceling headphones out from her desk drawer and plants herself on their bed. Brittany dances and Santana sleeps. Santana sleeps a lot.

Sometimes, in between sleeping and working, Santana worries about Chicago. She still doesn’t know how much Brittany heard, but she’s pretty sure it wasn’t nothing. Santana knows Brittany heard something because she’s been looking at Santana too much. It’s her waiting look, the one that’s sad and says “I know something happened and I’ll be really disappointed if you don’t tell me first.” And Santana’s grown, she really has—look at her now, engaged to a _girl_ —but this is still all so much. This isn’t the same as telling the rest of the school what they already knew. She’d do that a million times before she’d do the thing she’s worrying so much about.

This is telling Brittany what she already knows, what they both already know. The kind of talk that they still need to have, the one Santana was so skilled at avoiding, it’s full of embarrassing admissions. Like: “Yes, I have dreams apart from you. But I’ve had those before, and they didn’t work out so well for us that time.” Like: “I’m still terrified that you’ll discover the world and leave me behind.” Like: “Please, _please_ don’t leave me behind.” Like: “I’ll be really happy for you if you bag this Gaga audition.”

(Like: “I’ll be even happier for me if you don’t.” That’s the one that’s making it impossible to talk at all).

So she sleeps and works and sleeps and thinks. Sometimes she calls Quinn and Rachel, but mostly she just reads their emails. Rachel is gushing about her song choices and Quinn sends her the snippets of the script that Rachel’s already approved. Santana smiles, nods at what she reads, and then scrolls through the other three quarters of the email. Those are all the words that Rachel hasn’t approved yet, and they’re always Santana’s favorites.

She makes the mistake of adding a _small_ comment about _one_ line, and then all of a sudden there are three days until Brittany’s audition and Santana spends her hours, headphones snug on her ears, poring over Quinn’s script with a critical eye. “Rachel said you were a terrible writer,” Quinn says over Skype one afternoon, and Santana dismisses her with a wave of her hand. “I forgot that sometimes Rachel can be wrong.”

(The next afternoon Santana’s three pages of notes have turned into five and she shares them all with a smile on her face.)

Quinn keeps asking her to officially be part of their team. Because this is serious now. They’ve got most of a draft and a third of a soundtrack and Rachel has been relentlessly plugging the show to every professor and Broadway contact she can think of. No one’s backed them yet but the encouragement is there. The director from Rachel’s first dinky play suggests that they hold a workshop, stage the play and see how it goes. When Quinn mentions this, Santana freaks.

She freaks so much that she forgoes editing and watches Brittany dance all day.

When Brittany comes home triumphant because she’s passed the first round of trials, Santana asks Jay if she can have a slot on stage for Monday nights. It’s their slowest night, so nobody really wants to play, but most importantly that’s Brittany’s free night and her dancing is starting to get irritating.

(Every time Santana stops to watch Brittany practice it’s like she’s looking at the very definition of success and she feels guilty for everything).

* * *

 

Jay watches her a little closer than normal, it seems. Sam spends more time at the bar and he won’t tell her why. Santana knows exactly what they’re doing, and if she’s being honest, she resents it. She doesn’t need anyone checking up on her. Santana can handle her emotions far better than they think she can, and besides, she has a plan. They’re worried because Brittany hasn’t been to any of her performances, but that’s because she’s busy dancing all the time and also Santana hasn’t told her about them. She’s got it all figured out.

See, Santana’s always been about results. She doesn’t care about the equation, just the answer. She doesn’t care about the experiment, just the chemical solution. She doesn’t care about the battles, just the victors. Because it’s a tedious thing, processing everything, and in the end it doesn’t even matter really. When you finish running the race, why are the 26.2 miles even important? All you remember is the finish line whether you break the tape or not. That’s why Glee was always Santana’s favorite part of the day. Because it was all about the song, and even if she had to go through the singing to get there, she could do it on her own. She could digest a song internally, process everything within the safe cage of her mind and deliver it as carefully-constructed melodies and words.

And that’s what she’s doing now. Testing out the waves alone so that when she invites Brittany for a swim, she’ll know that the water’s warm and ready. Santana doesn’t need Sam’s pity eyes or Jay’s sad head bob. She needs someone to tell her when a song falls flat or which runs sent shivers up their spine.

She needs someone to tell her that the processing is over.

What she really needs is Quinn, but she’s too wrapped up in Billie Holiday to listen to anything else.

So Santana keeps singing—adds some Eva Cassidy, rejects her attempts at Elton (studiously avoids any Billie), and always closes the show with a little Winehouse.

She sings for two weeks. Brittany dances and they go to bed together when they can. Santana spoons her when she gets home from work and always kisses under her ear just before she falls asleep. Brittany usually isn’t around when Santana wakes up, but there are homemade waffles or chopped fruit or sometimes a peanut butter sandwich with a smiley face waiting for her. They feel domestic in a way they haven’t before. They’re not living together with a vague promise of commitment anymore. Every day, when Santana wakes up to yet another adorable or thoughtful thing that Brittany’s done, it feels like she’s living in the future. Like some day five or seven or however many years from now, those waffles and chopped fruit will be on a partitioned plate with a plastic lion fork and Santana will have an eager tiny person to feed and laugh with at the breakfast table.

But for now, she takes what she can get and it’s a lot because Brittany is the most generous person Santana has ever known. She has a kind heart and good intentions and sometimes they can be misconstrued, which Santana knows all too well because she was usually the one misconstruing them.

Unfortunately, it’s something that still hasn’t changed.

She has a late lunch at her favorite sandwich place because she’s tired of all the food in the house. When she comes back, Brittany is positively zooming around the apartment. She’s not doing anything productive. She’s not even dancing. She’s just moving for the sake of moving, and it makes Santana smile.

“Somebody’s happy,” she says when Brittany makes her fifth circle through the kitchen.

“Today is a good day,” Brittany simply replies. She waits a beat to see if Santana will bite, and Santana doesn’t say anything because she knows Brittany’s going to tell her anyway. “Guess what,” Brittany says, giddy.

“What?” Santana smiles.

“I think I’m on the tour!” Brittany screeches.

“What!”

“I know!”

Santana abandons her quest for juice and really looks at Brittany. “Are you serious? Did they say anything for sure?”

Brittany shakes her head. “Not completely. But this audition went even better than the first and the choreographer even smiled, and he _never_ smiles. Plus he said he’d call me tomorrow and like, why would he call me if it was a no? He could have just said that before I left.”

“Good point,” Santana laughs. “Baby, that’s so amazing! I’m so proud of you.”

Brittany’s shoulders heave in a long, excited exhale. “Thanks; I’m just so glad it’s done. I wanted to call you right after but you were at lunch and it was totally better to tell you in person.” She flashes Santana a toothy grin. “So, you weren’t the first person to know, but you’re definitely still my favorite.”

Santana smiles right back. “Did you call your mom?”

“Yeah,” Brittany nods. “We screamed about this for a while and then we talked wedding stuff—you remember my cousin’s lake house, that really giant one? My mom said that they offered it for the ceremony, which is totally awesome because then we don’t have to pay a crazy amount of money to rent anything. I told her we’d definitely take them up on it.”

“Oh.” Santana pauses and bites down a bitchy remark. “Cool, that sounds awesome.”

Brittany notices the frown that Santana tries to hide. “Really?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Santana says too quickly. “Absolutely. It’s not like we have the bank account to fund a hotel ballroom or something, and I’ve had all the church I can handle in a lifetime.”

“Right.” Brittany’s smile starts slow, hesitantly widening when Santana’s doesn’t falter. Santana has never felt so lousy for lying. “Okay, perfect. So my mom had some really good ideas about colors…”

The first conversation they’ve had about the wedding and Santana is already tuning out.

It probably isn’t a good sign.

* * *

 

The next day is only worse because Brittany calls her, completely unable to form coherent words, and Santana just knows that she’s in. And once she calms down she tells Santana that she got a whole packet about the Romanovs because that’s the theme of the tour and she has to study it until she’s practically got it memorized and wasn’t that the one about the sad Russian princess? Was there really a bat?

Santana tells her no, Bartok wasn’t real and Brittany laughs because of course she was kidding. And by the way, her mom’s been suggesting dates and they should really start thinking about that because who knows what the tour schedule is gonna be like.

Santana stops her before she can really get going. “Britt, can we talk about this later?” she interrupts a little too harshly.

There is a long moment before Brittany responds. “Um, sure. Do you have to get back to work or something? I thought you just went on break.”

“I have to go do sound check.”

“You’re singing?” Brittany blurts.

“Yeah, I’ve been taking up a couple extra slots a week. You know, just getting my feet wet, seeing if I really want to do this again.” It’s a lie. It’s not even Monday. Some Michael Bublé knockoff is in there right now, crooning half a key too low and three beats out of sync.

“Oh. Can I come see?”

“You don’t have to,” Santana deflects. “I know you’re all excited about the tour and you don’t need to stay up late just for me. Take a bath, get some sleep. I don’t even have a set list worked out yet.”

“Oh. Okay.”

(This is the first time in a while where Santana doesn’t know how to talk to Brittany).

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Britt. I’ll see you at home.”

“Yeah.”

Santana hangs up and leans against the wall, puffing out her cheeks in a sigh. She knows she was being callous, but sometimes Brittany doesn’t realize what she’s doing. This is the “Born This Way” performance, junior prom, college scholarship all over again. She’s taking over Santana’s life under the guise of helping. And she means well, Santana knows she does, but it’s overbearing. Brittany has all these solutions for everything and they all make sense to her. And most of them are actually logical which is why Santana agrees to so many of them. But just because they’re good solutions doesn’t mean they’re the right ones.

Santana spends the night alternating between feeling bad and stewing in (somewhat) justified anger. Anger trumps guilt—as it always does—and Santana drives home too quickly, her foot practically glued to the pedal. She’s going to apologize for being so short with Brittany. That will absolutely be the first thing she does when she gets home, but she’s still so mad at how unfair Brittany’s being. Santana doesn’t even think she realizes she’s doing it. But Brittany still has this complex about their relationship—how she’s the wise one in the whole thing, the one who has all the answers when it comes to feelings. And maybe she does. Santana still has a lot to work on in that regard. But Brittany, as much as she’s asked and demanded that Santana change over the years, hasn’t really changed at all. Most days it doesn’t bother Santana a bit.

Tonight it’s nothing short of a miracle that she manages not to slam the front door.

Brittany surprises her by still being awake. She’s sitting on the couch, twisting her ring nervously.

“Hey, you’re home,” she breathes, stretching and smiling. Santana isn’t happy but she can’t help smiling back.

“Yeah, here I am,” she murmurs. She puts her bag down and crosses her arms. Brittany just waits. “I wanted to say sorry for being a jerk on the phone earlier. You were just being supportive and I shouldn’t have blown you off.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

Santana laughs. “No, not a ‘but.’ An ‘and’, maybe, because I really am sorry.”

“Okay.” Brittany just waits again and she shouldn’t have to because Santana knows exactly what she wants to say. It shouldn’t be this hard to say it. “San, I have to tell you something…” Brittany goes back to twisting her ring just as Santana finally finds her words.

“Hold on, let me ask you something: did you really tell your cousin we’d take the lake house?”

Brittany frowns. “Well, yeah. It’s perfect and free.”

“Britt—”

“This is part of the thing I have to tell you, Santana.” Brittany’s words are slurred, falling out of her mouth like the last spastic drops of milk in the carton. “I got another call from Henrik today.”

“Who?”

“Lady Gaga’s choreographer.”

“What? Why? Oh my god, did they cut you from the tour? Whose ass do I have to kick?”

“No, honey.” Brittany smiles but it looks sad. “I’m still on the tour, it’s okay. It’s just that” (she’s going to wear her finger down to the bone if she twists her ring any harder) “well, they got the schedule mixed up and they have to push dance boot camp up a lot earlier.”

“How much earlier?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Okay, well that’s fine. That’s really cool! Jeez, you’re two days closer to meeting Lady Gaga.”

“Santana…”

(Something about Brittany’s voice makes Santana’s heart beat erratically in her chest.)

“Boot camp is in New York,” she finally finishes.

“What?”

Tears spring to Brittany’s eyes, or maybe they’ve always been there and Santana just didn’t want to notice them. “I have to be in New York in two days. Tomorrow, actually, because there’s orientation.”

“You don’t have a flight.”

“They booked me one.”

Santana crosses her arms so hard she can feel her nails digging into her ribs. “You don’t have anywhere to stay.”

“They took care of the hotel, too. An apology or something, I guess.”

“You haven’t memorized your packet yet.”

“Santana.”

But this is the complete wrong time for Brittany’s puppy eyes. “No, Britt, this is bullshit! They can’t just shove this on you last minute and expect you to go along with it.”

Brittany crosses her arms, too. “What was I supposed to do, tell them _no_? ‘Sorry, I would have loved to be on your tour more than anything but it’s just too inconvenient for me right now.’”

(The puppy has turned into a dog and it’s barking up a storm).

“Something like that, yeah!”

Brittany lets out an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious?”

“We have a _wedding_ to plan, Brittany. We’re getting married. Or did you forget?” Brittany opens her mouth to respond but Santana keeps going, knowing full well that it would be a thousand times better if she would just shut up. “No, wait, of course you didn’t, because you’ve been mapping everything out with your mom. You’ve got the location and the colors and the dates—did you pick out my wedding dress, too?”

“Santana…” Brittany sniffles. “I just wanted to make sure we had something concrete before I left. I didn’t want to go and then have it feel like it would never happen.”

“There isn’t a ‘ _we’_ right now, Brittany. You haven’t asked me about any of this stuff. You’re just talking to your mom.”

“Yeah, I,” Brittany falters, “I didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed. Something’s still wrong and you haven’t really talked to me but I didn’t want you to have to worry about anything. And, like, I didn’t really think it was your thing. You always looked like you wanted to set Rachel on fire when she was planning her wedding.”

“You’re comparing us to Rachel and Finn?”

“I was just trying to help,” Brittany says, her face flushing.

Santana softens immediately. “I know you were, baby. But I don’t want you to do this alone. I want to plan our wedding together.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, how many weddings do you think I’m going to have?”

Brittany smiles and wipes at her eyes. “Okay. Well, good.” She smiles again. “So we’ll have to schedule some Skype planning sessions when I get a free night or something. Except I think you’ll have to eat all the different cakes because I haven’t invented teleportation yet.”

“What?”

“I know, I’m trying to work on it but science is hard…”

Santana sighs, frustrated because Brittany’s still not getting it. “Brittany, I don’t want to plan the wedding over Skype. What’s wrong with the kitchen table right here?”

“Well, unless you want to wait a couple of years to get married, that’s not going to happen. Look, it’ll be fine. You don’t work that late on Sundays, right? I’m sure we can find time then—”

“Britt, stop.” Santana wipes a hand over her face. She feels like she could sleep for days. “God, you always do this. You plan my life for me and you won’t let me do anything else. You made that shirt for me and then you got me that scholarship and then I feel like a dick when I don’t do things your way.”

“I was just trying to help!” Brittany repeats.

“You don’t help, Britt, you take over. When it comes to feelings you take over.”

“So, what, now it’s your turn?” Brittany shakes her head and starts pacing. “This isn’t a game to me, Santana. This isn’t something I’m going to back down on. This is my dream.”

“And I’m trying to build our dream.”

“I’m not going to stay just because you want me to, Santana.”

“But you said you would!” Santana yells. “When I asked you to marry me you said you would stay forever.” She swats angrily at her eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to be with you, to marry you? And we finally make it happen, and I think, “God, my dream is coming true,” but you’re leaving me to go dance with celebrities.”

“So, it’s _our dream_ when I’m staying and _your dream_ when I’m leaving. You’re not being fair, Santana. I can’t keep coddling you.”

“ _Coddling_ me? Britt, you don’t have to coddle me.”

“I do when you ask me to, and you’re asking.”

“All I’m asking is that you stay.”

“I know.”

They’ve reached an odd sort of détente. Brittany’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen and Santana’s gaze is firmly pointed toward the window. This argument feels different than any others they’ve had before. It feels like the kind that they won’t ever find a solution for.

Neither of them says anything for a long time, so Santana figures that must be right.

Then suddenly Brittany’s arms are warm around her back and Santana’s cheeks are flooded with warmer tears. “This isn’t impossible, Santana. There are breaks on the tour. Like, for months.”

“Yeah, so we Skype when we can and I wait months for you to come back only to watch you leave again,” she mumbles. “What kind of life is that?”

“This _is_ life, Santana,” Brittany says quietly. “People leave.”

“Not _you_ ,” Santana croaks, running her hands possessively over Brittany’s arms. “You stay. You always stay. That’s what I can always count on.”

Brittany’s voice is barely a whisper. “I can’t stay this time. Besides, you left me a long time ago.”

“Wha—No, I…”

“Santana, you’ve been distant practically ever since we visited Quinn for spring break. I don’t know what it is you’re looking for, but there’s something. I heard what you said to Quinn at her graduation, and I know that wasn’t just you being drunk.” Santana’s heart falls and she closes her eyes because there it is. That’s the trump card. It’s everything she’s been terrified of for weeks.  “You meant it.” Brittany pauses, expelling a line of air through her nose. “It’s okay to want things, Santana. You just don’t have to be secretive about it.”

“I know it’s okay to want things,” Santana mumbles. “I just didn’t think…” She trails off, knowing there’s no way to say what was going to follow without sounding like an asshole.

“You didn’t think that I had things left to want?” Brittany sighs, and they both know that Santana’s silence means she hit the nail on the head. “That’s why I have to go. You still have things to learn about me."

“Teach them to me _here_ ,” Santana pleads.

“My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon,” is all that Brittany says.

* * *

 

Santana wakes up the next morning to a cold bed. The purple suitcase that Brittany loves is gone. She’s left a note on the kitchen table— _I’ll call you when I land. I love you forever_.

Santana cries all the way through waffles and chopped fruit.

She cries and cries and cries some more and then she does what she used to do when college got really hard.

(It isn’t the voice she wants to hear right now, but it’s the one she needs).

“Santana! Two calls in three weeks? You must be lonely.”

It’s the unintentionally-ironic joke that sets her off, the laugh that isn’t supposed to sting this much. “Mom…”

It’s all she gets out before her chin quivers too much.

“Oh, Santana.”

“I messed up really bad, Mom,” she wails.

“ _Dime lo que pasó_. I’m sure it will be fine.”

“But it won’t; I made her leave, and I just—”

“Brittany left?” her mom interrupts. “Why?”

Santana sniffles and clears her throat. “She’s got dance camp in New York—”

“She’s on the tour? That’s wonderful!”

“Ma, could you let me finish a sentence, please?” The line is quiet and Santana can imagine her mother rolling her eyes spectacularly. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

“Explain everything; I’m listening.”

Santana sighs heavily. “It’s not really a long story, I guess. They fudged the dates on the dance camp and we had a huge fight and Brittany left”—she checks the clock on the microwave—“about two hours ago, I guess.”

“ _Mija_ , what did you think was going to happen when she made the tour? That Lady Gaga was going to travel all up and down the West Coast?”

“No, but…” Santana sighs again, clears her throat and collects her thoughts before the tears take over. She just lets everything out, tells her mom exactly what she’s feeling. She lets loose in a way she still can’t with Brittany because it’s _Brittany_ and her opinion matters the most.

“I just…I love her so much, Mom, and I don’t know what I’m going to do while she’s away. We got engaged and I said all these things and now she’s going all over the world and I won’t be there. And I’ve _always_ been there. What am I supposed to do with myself?”

“Did you know,” her mother says slowly, “that your father and I were together for six months before he asked me to marry him?”

“What? No way,” Santana scoffs. “Dad totally planned that for, like, a year before he even thought about asking. He probably had pie charts and everything.”

“No,” Maribel laughs, “we started dating in June after my senior year of college and he proposed on Christmas Eve.”

“Barf. I didn’t know Dad was so cheesy.”

“We’d both had pretty long and confusing relationships before we found each other,” her mom continues, ignoring Santana’s editorials, “and your father was very frank about it. He looked at me and said, ‘Maribel, this is what I want and I want it with you.’ And I said yes.”

“Okay?”

“Santana, relationships don’t work if you don’t know exactly where you’re going and why. I said yes to your father because I knew what I wanted.”

“I know what I want, Ma. I want Brittany. I’ve always wanted Brittany.”

“I know, _mi amor_ , and that’s the problem. You’ve been in Brittany’s life for so long that I think you get confused about what it’s like to grow on your own.”

“I don’t want to grow on my own.”

“That’s exactly why you need to, Santana. This time apart is going to be hard, but I think it will be good for both of you.”

“What if—” She sucks back a sob. “What if she doesn’t come back?”

“Santana, this is Brittany. Sometimes I think she loves you more than I do, and I would do anything for you. Of course she’ll come back. She didn’t leave your ring, did she?”

Santana’s heart pounds just at the thought that she might have, and she checks the nightstand just in case. “No.”

“Then she has to come back.”

“I know, but—I told her that I loved her junior year and she left me then, too.”

“But she came back, Santana.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m not lucky enough to have that happen twice.”

“Brittany has a promise to keep, and you know how seriously she takes her promises.”

“Yeah,” Santana laughs. It’s more of a gasp. Cold air rushes into her mouth and stalls halfway to her lungs before she remembers how to breathe again. “I just want to marry her really badly, _mami_.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I know you do,” Maribel coos. “I want that for you too, so much. And it will happen, _te lo prometo_. Just not tomorrow.”

Santana nods even though her mom can’t see her. She’s never been more thankful for that, really. No one should have to see her blubber into the phone.

“Come home for a little bit,” her mother offers.

Santana wipes her eyes and breathes as quietly as she can out of her mouth. “I’ve been traveling a lot lately, Mom. I don’t know if Jay would let me take more time off.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Jay. He’ll be fine. He is a reasonable man.”

Santana chuckles, her laugh burbling and thick. “You’ve never even met him. How would you know if he’s reasonable?”

“Because he hasn’t fired you yet.”

“Hey, I am a _model_ employee. Well. Most of the time.”

“I know you are. Come home anyway.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask. I love you, Santana.”

“Yeah, love you too, Mom.”

/

(Jay turns out to be the easiest part. Santana mopes when she gets Brittany’s text and Jay is the biggest marshmallow she’s ever known. He sends her home five minutes into her shift when she starts crying into some guy’s Guinness. And instead of going home, she wanders over to Home Depot and cries at Sam for a few hours until he gets written up for slacking off. The next day, when the same thing happens only this time he gets fired, Santana cries even harder. Sam buys her pie.

So she goes back to Jay and asks him for some more time off. He looks at her for a long time before asking how much, and Santana decides to be honest. Completely honest, because being only half-honest was what drove Brittany away. _How much?_ he asks, and Santana tells him that she doesn’t know. He nods before asking her if she’s coming back at all.

She hugs him even though they don’t do that.

 _Sam makes a really, really good martini_ , she says).

/

Her dad has the morning off when he picks her up at the airport. It’s a dinky airport, nothing big like O’Hare or JFK. The traffic controllers here don’t yell at you if you park at the passenger pickup. Her dad is leaning against his car, waiting to greet her with flowers and a kiss to the temple.

They don’t say much on the way home.

Hours later, her mom picks up Breadstix for dinner, and there Santana is again, crying over carbohydrates.


	7. Brittany (Prologue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics at the beginning are from "Firewood" by Regina Spektor.

**_"everyone knows you're going to love  
though there's still no cure for crying"_ **

_“The last Russian dynasty began with a Michael and ended with a Michael, though history will remember his more infamous brother, Nicholas. The Romanov family was marked by impurities and rule-breaking. The emperors had mistresses; the male pedigree died out too quickly. But our story begins and ends with an Anastasia. History will tell you that these are two different Anastasias._

_With all due respect, Gaga will tell you that history is wrong._

_Welcome to the Bloodlines tour.”_

* * *

 

New York is a scary place without Santana.

Sure, Brittany’s more than well-acquainted with New York. There was Nationals junior year and then she went to college, at least until she didn’t anymore. But she always had Santana. Brittany has no problem walking around New York. She can navigate up and down the streets with ease. She’s a shark for finding the best coffee shops and shoe stores. She knows the subway like the back of her hand and she can hail a cab in seconds. Brittany has lived through New York falls and springs and winters.

But never the summers. She and Santana didn’t move to New York until August and then they were gone the following May.

Mid-June in New York is kind of an explosion. There are people everywhere and taxis everywhere and garbage _everywhere_. Giant bags line every street corner, just piled on top of each other like mountains of decaying plastic. Every time Brittany walks past one, it’s like smelling her soul. She’s pretty sure that if her feelings were smells, she’d be a little bit of rotting banana mixed with dirty Swiffer wipes and chicken bones and she’d be leaking day-old-coffee tears.

It’s even worse because her flight was so long and she wanted to spend every minute of it looking out the window. Brittany loves window seats. She loves watching the sky and the clouds because even if they look the same, they’re never static. They’re always moving—white, weightless boats against a floating ocean. Brittany plays games with them. She constructs races. Horse races, potato sack races, hot dog races like you see in a ballpark. (Chili cheese always wins, or maybe she just thinks that because the clouds all puff together at the end and maybe they’ve all got a little bit of chili on them).

Her ocean is black tonight. The cloud-waves that would have had crisp crests, ones that always break into perfect peaks, are subdued and curved. They roll softly, amble down the length of the plane in a way Brittany would love if she could reach to her right and grab Santana’s hand. But she can’t because a sweaty man is snoring, his great big forearm taking up the armrest, so for the first time, Brittany lowers the shade.

(She stays awake the entire flight).

She lands at night and the city really doesn’t sleep because it’s still loud. The airport is loud and her cab driver never shuts up so it’s hard for her to get a word in, which might be why he’s dropped her off at the completely wrong hotel. Brittany would say something but she’s flustered and he kind of turns around in his seat and stares at her so she just gets out. She grabs her duffel bag from the trunk, throws some money at him, and then she’s completely lost. It’s eleven o’clock, so hot her shirt has fused to her skin, and she’s sitting on a dirty sidewalk in front of some hotel she’s not even supposed to be at.

Brittany can’t call Santana to come get her like she wants, but she can call the next best thing.

“Brittany?”

“Please tell me you’re still in New York.” Her voice sounds like it’s on a rollercoaster that left the rest of her body behind. “You haven’t gone home yet, have you?”

“No? I’m still in New York—”

“Please, _please_ come get me.”

“Brittany, even the world’s fastest plane wouldn’t get me to LA quick enough.”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m in New York for the tour and they put me in a hotel but the cab driver dropped me off at the wrong one and I’m just so tired but I don’t know where I am…”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay. Give me a cross street and I’ll be there as fast as I can, okay?”

Her mouth contorts in a frown and she sucks in her bottom lip. “Thanks, Kurt.”

‘As fast as he can’ turns out to be around twenty minutes because traffic in New York sucks all the time. It’s an uncomfortable twenty minutes because people keep going in and out of the hotel and they all stare at her but no one says anything. She’s become just another part of New York, just another weirdo on a street corner. Like, even if she’s only there for one night, she’ll be that weird girl sitting on her duffel bag. And it keeps sagging and she really should just sit on the ground but Brittany can’t really seem to move.  So she lets it dip until her knees are bent too high and her back is starting to twinge.

She should call Santana. She really wants to call Santana. Brittany said she would call Santana.

But if she calls Santana then she’ll really start crying and two minutes into it, she’ll be looking for plane tickets back to California. And she just can’t do that because easy fixes have never been the way they’ve solved things. She and Santana, they’ve been through tough times—cheating and being outed and pretty much three years of intense personal angst. But Brittany wouldn’t trade any of it. Because all these bad times, they make the good ones so much better. The bad times are why they’ve lasted longer than Finn and Rachel or Kurt and Blaine. Because they know that when life deals them the worst bad they could ever get, they’re going to find the best good on the other side. And she wouldn’t want it any other way.

Someday she and Santana are going to be the happiest anyone’s ever seen. And Brittany would wait a million years for that.

So instead of calling, she sends a text. _Touched down safely_ , she says with a smiley face. _I love you and I’ll call you tomorrow_.

She drops her phone into her pocket just as Kurt pulls up. Brittany manages a small smile as she watches him argue with the cab driver. Kurt must finally persuade him to stay because he leans against the cab and greedily thumbs through the wad of twenties Kurt shoved at him.

“How much did you give him?” she asks when Kurt gets closer. “I’ll pay you back.”

He dismisses her with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. C’mere.”

He holds out his arms and she eagerly steps into them. His shoes have a bigger heel than hers do so instead of the two inches that normally separate them, there are four and he has to bend down to rest his chin on her head. It’s odd—Kurt’s always had a sharp chin. His head is like a shovel with a really convincing wig on top. And yeah, it’s digging into her scalp a lot. But it’s not the bad kind of digging. It’s like he wants to help find the parts of her that will make everything better, and Brittany just doesn’t ever want him to stop.

“Wanna talk?” he murmurs.

“No,” she mumbles into his chest.

He hums and hugs her tighter. “Are you sure?”

Brittany sighs. If she closes her eyes, maybe she can forget how sad she is right now. “Only if you buy me a milkshake.”

“I just gave all my money to the stupid cab driver.”

Brittany pulls her wallet from her back pocket and, in a giant swooping arc, brings it up to where she thinks Kurt’s face is. She’s pretty sure she hits his nose, if his surprised snort is anything to go by.

“Banana, please. With those little shortbread cookies on top.”

“Okay.”

/

They find a diner that could just as easily be in Ohio or LA, and it makes Brittany feel a little better. Kurt playfully slides Brittany’s credit card out of her wallet before putting it back and grabbing a twenty dollar bill. Their waitress is young and generically pretty, probably a hopeful actress funding auditions with cheeseburgers and crappy customers. When she walks away, Brittany tells Kurt to leave a nice tip.

He nods and dives right into what’s wrong. Brittany answers on autopilot, like his question pressed a button that makes her spill everything without even really thinking about it. She’s saying things that even she doesn’t like, but she can’t help it. And Kurt, glorious, unicorn Kurt, is simply listening.

Brittany finishes with a sniffle and immediately takes an extra-long sip of her milkshake.

“I don’t think you’re being unreasonable,” Kurt says.

Brittany pouts. “It kind of feels like I am.”

Kurt shakes his head, quick to reassure. “No, you’re not. I promise you that. But neither is Santana, at least not completely.” Brittany frowns. “I know, I know,” Kurt continues, “she’s certainly being a little unfair. Can I tell you something?”

“Please,” Brittany replies, eager to hear anything that might make her feel better.

“Do you remember that horrendous party at Rachel’s house back in high school?”

Brittany nods.

“Well.” He plays nervously with the bowl of individual coffee creams. “Let me tell you that, as the only sober person in attendance, I noticed quite a few things.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Brittany jokes, “I totally take my clothes off too much.”

Kurt simultaneously smiles and gives her a look that says, _Oh, I am more than well-acquainted with your lack of shame_. “Not quite what I was referring to, but that’s as good a starting point as any. You didn’t pay a lot of attention to Santana that night, but I did. And the girl was a mess.”

“Yeah, she was pretty wasted.”

Kurt shakes his head. “No, I don’t mean that. She was a mess over you. When you and Sam started making out, every time Artie threw some more money at you, those body shots…Santana just kept drinking. And I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad,” he clarifies, which is nice because guilt was starting to settle real comfortably in her chest. “Santana got so, so drunk, and so, so sad, and I mean, I couldn’t _not_ be there for her, right?”

“Wait—”

“If she remembered this at all, she’d kill me for repeating it. But I’m quite certain Santana spent that night toeing the line of alcohol poisoning, so I think I’m safe. Anyway, pretty much everyone was passed out and I’d given up on trying to clean anything. I happened to look over near the bathroom and you were asleep on the floor. Santana was half-awake and practically laying on top of you. She was humming something and I spent so long trying to figure out what it was that I didn’t notice she was shivering. So I got up to find a blanket, and…she just looked so sad, Brittany. I covered you both in the blanket and she was crying and humming and stroking your hair and when I asked her if she was alright, she laughed a little and just said, ‘I’m perfect.’”

Brittany swallows back her feelings and blinks her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“You’ve always been the best of her, Brittany,” Kurt says as he covers her hand with his own. “At least that’s what Santana fully believes. And now she’s in California and you’re in New York and she’s got to figure out how to be good enough on her own.”

“She _is_ good enough,” Brittany whispers harshly.

“I know that,” Kurt says. “And you know that. Santana knows it more than she did in high school, but I don’t think she really understands it yet. And this is hard. It’s terrible for both of you, I know. But you did the best thing you could have done for Santana right now.”

Brittany slumps down in the booth, resting her head on the Formica tabletop. “Then why does it hurt so bad?”

(Kurt doesn’t have an answer).

“Stay with me,” he offers. “I won’t make you pay rent and I’ve got all the sad movies you could ever dream of.”

Brittany smiles at his generosity. If there’s anyone who understands how Brittany feels about feelings, it’s Kurt Hummel. Santana still has trouble and Rachel is just… _too Rachel_. But Kurt—he’s like Judy Garland or Grace Kelly, where everything is just a reminder of a feeling. It’s like, everything is always happy and sad at the same time and as soon as you recognize your feelings, they’re in the past. Emotions are like old movies sometimes. They’re beautiful and timeless but every time you try to lose yourself in them, you just get this incredible sense of yearning. Sometimes for things you might not ever experience.

Kurt gets that more than anyone Brittany knows, which is why she’s sure he’ll understand when she turns him down.

(Because really, there’s nothing more beautiful than sadness that happens for a reason).

“That’s really nice, Kurt,” she smiles, “but I think I just need to focus on this tour. It’ll be good to just dance for me again.”

“Okay. Well, you know where I am if you ever need me.”

She squeezes his hand and lifts her head. “I know.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “Have you talked to her at all?”

Brittany shrugs. “I texted her. She said something back but I haven’t read it yet.”

Kurt just looks at her until she rolls her eyes and switches on her phone.

_I miss you too much_ , is all it says.

Brittany groans and the table is her favorite pillow all over again.

“Let’s get you another milkshake.”

/

She lasts four minutes after Kurt drops her off before she calls Santana. It’s almost midnight for her, so it shouldn’t be too late for Santana. As the phone rings and rings, Brittany realizes that Santana might not even answer. Brittany usually has it memorized, but as hard as she tries she can’t remember Santana’s work schedule.

“Hi.” Santana surprises her.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Brittany blurts, wincing silently moments later.

“Jay sent me home, said I was too depressing. Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Brittany frowns. “Why would I be?”

“Britt.”

“No, seriously, Santana. Why would I be? I wasn’t mad at you when we went to bed last night.”

“Then why were you asking if I was at work?”

“Well, I just—”

“Because that’s the kind of thing you ask when you’re mad at me.”

“Santana, stop.” Brittany pinches the skin under her knee. Santana likes to pinch her nose when she gets frustrated, but whenever Brittany does that she just ends up seeing spots for a while. “You’re going to make me actually mad at you if you don’t calm down.”

“Sorry,” Santana murmurs.

“Don’t apologize. I called because I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I got Sam in trouble at work.”

“How?”

“I’m not okay, Britt.”

Brittany sighs. She knows this Santana, the one who only offers enough of her emotions so that Brittany will feel sorry for her. It’s tiring and so, so high school, and the worst part is that it still works. She doesn’t give in anymore, but there will always be a part of Brittany that wants to fix every problem Santana has. That’s what helping is, right? And Brittany’s always been a helper.

“I’m sorry you’re sad, honey,” she eventually says.

Santana’s response is immediate. “Please come home.”

“I can’t,” Brittany whispers.

“Yes, you _can_ ,” Santana pleads. “Come home and plan a wedding with me and go to bed with me and be in love with me.”

“I’m always in love with you, San.”

“But you’re not here.”

“No, I’m not. And right now that’s for the best. We need to make some changes.”

“I changed a lot for you in high school,” Santana says defensively.

“No, you didn’t. You let everyone else see the awesome I already got every day. And it made me happy and proud and I loved it so much. But now I’m asking you to change. I’m asking both of us to change, actually. We’re not in high school anymore.”

“Sometimes I wish we were,” Santana laughs.

“Yeah,” Brittany replies, chuckling in kind. “Yeah, me too.”

“Mr. Schue would probably assign a whole week’s worth of wedding songs. I’d never want to plan the damn thing again.”

“Liar; you’d want everyone to help.”

“Are you kidding—you think I’d let high school-Rachel anywhere _near_ my wedding? She’d turn it into a production of _Hello, Dolly_.”

“Well, that’s okay. You’d make a lovely Horace.”

“What?” Santana splutters. “Why do I have to be Horace?”

“Honey, out of the two of us, you’re the grumpy one.”

“Not around you, I’m not,” Santana grumbles.

“I’m not totally sure, but I think you just proved my point.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Sorry, San,” Brittany teases. “I win again.”

“You do that a lot, don’t you?”

“Well, you make it so easy.”

“I do not!”

“Okay,” Brittany smiles. “Are you feeling better?”

“Are you home?” Santana immediately fires back.

“Santana…”

“Sorry, sorry,” she apologizes. “That wasn’t fair.”

“I get it.” Brittany stretches on her bed, suddenly fully aware of how comfortable it is. “I’ll call you every day, okay? I’ll always find time for you.”

There is a long pause before Santana clears her throat. Her voice, when it comes, is garbled and thick. “Yeah, cool. Sounds great, Britt.”

“I love you, Santana,” Brittany says, playing with a tassel on one of the throw pillows. If Santana were here she’d tickle her cheeks with it and they’d both giggle and probably end up having sex until they passed out because they’re really good at that. But Santana isn’t here so Brittany dangles the pillow over her eyes and shakes it. It isn’t the same.

“I love you too, Britt. So much.”

They hang up a few minutes later and Brittany sighs before she turns out the bedside lamp.

The last time she was in New York, she slept on an unforgiving hardwood floor. It hurt her back in the morning and her neck was stiff when she woke up, but she’d take that over the lonely hotel mattress.

(At least hardwood floors meant friends and Santana, warm stomachs and fingers that never let go of hers.)

She sleeps through the night and it’s a really deep sleep, but it isn’t enough.

* * *

 

The studio that she has to be at the next morning isn’t too far away from the hotel, which is good because she spent an extra twenty minutes in bed convincing herself that she should actually go there. It was a not-so-subtle text from Kurt and the idea that she’d actually get to meet Lady Gaga that finally won her over.

She walks in with a lukewarm coffee and a dance bag, and it’s then that she starts to actually feel nervous. She doesn’t see anyone she knows, and she doesn’t expect to know anyone because these are dancers from everywhere. Brittany’s always been great at making friends but this is different because these are professional friends. These aren’t people who will want to hang out with her after rehearsals or a show. These are people who will smile at her and appreciate her and judge her every time she messes up a move. These are people who will always be looking for the missteps, even if they think they’re being nice. Brittany knows this because she’s a dancer and she does it, too.

So she takes her coffee and sits in a corner, watching everyone else. She watches all the cliques that have already formed. Dancer cliques are more insidious than other cliques. They’re always fragile, like every friend you make is attached to a string and someone has hold of the other side, and they’re just waiting for the right moment to yank it away. So Brittany’s way of negotiating that is just to stick to herself for the first couple of days. She won’t say anything but she will dance. She will dance and she will dance and she will _dance_ and the other people who know how to _dance_ will approach her when they want to. And the rest, they’ll have a lot of fun in the millions of music videos she knows they’ll do.

Dancer cliques are also a lot prettier than normal ones. They’re full of gazelles and dolphins and a lot, _a lot_ of eagles. Brittany tried once to figure out what she’d be. Like, Santana is a panther every time she dances and Puck is a chimpanzee and Finn is a giraffe and Rachel is a zebra in a world of horses. But sometimes Brittany is a penguin or a rabbit, and there are days where she just feels so much like a stingray, and she hasn’t really found anyone else who can fly, swim, and jump at the same time.

Brittany doesn’t like to choose when she dances. Teachers always make her pick something; they analyze her technique until they’ve trapped her on the ground or underwater or in the sky. But mostly when she dances she wants to breach the sea, grab a handful of dirt, and fling it into the clouds as she shoots upwards.

(Until she finds someone who lets her do that, she’ll sit in her corner and watch everyone else).

There are some dancers who already know each other. Brittany thinks they’re Lady Gaga’s regular dancers or something, because she can’t reboot the cast with every different tour. You have to stick with people you trust when you’re dancing because it isn’t always safe. You need to have people you trust around you because you have to know who you can let go of your trust with. Brittany figures that Lady Gaga’s need for dancers is kind of like letting go every tour.

“Is that coffee from the little cart outside?” someone asks. Brittany can feel whoever it is slide down the wall next to her.

“Yeah,” she answers, playing with the plastic lid. “It kind of sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” her someone says, and it’s a male someone for sure. “I miss the coffee back home. I know this really great place in LA.”

“You’re from LA, too?” she asks, because maybe there’s finally someone she can talk with about things they won’t judge her for. She snaps her head up maybe a little too excitedly, but that doesn’t matter when she finally sees who her someone is.

“Oh my god!” she screeches, and she has to remember to put her coffee down before she jumps up and hugs him, and then they’re jumping together and she doesn’t feel so out of place. He laughs and she squishes her face against his curls and only pulls away when she starts to breathe more hair than oxygen.

“Gavin! I didn’t know you nailed your audition, too!” she yells.

He just laughs. “I must have forgotten to tell you, or maybe you were just too busy with all your wedding plans to remember. Let me see that ring again.” Brittany holds her hand out a little sheepishly (and a lot sadly) and looks away as he inspects it. “Santana must be the perfect woman if she’s letting you run off in the middle of your engagement.”

He expects a smile that she’s sure she couldn’t give him even if she were happy.

“Yeah, um, can we talk about that later?” she stutters. “I just really want to dance right now.”

“Sure,” he nods, serious and subdued. “Are you at the Fairfield, too?”

“Yeah.”

He pats her thigh assuredly, knocking his shoulders into hers as they sit back down. “We’ll raid my minibar. Which group are you in?” he asks, wonderfully changing the subject.

“What?” she responds. It isn’t a good sign that her first words about dance are confused ones.

“Didn’t you get that giant packet? They put us in groups for each of the acts.”

Brittany’s heart sinks. That giant packet that she hasn’t had time to read all the way through—yeah, she totally got that.

Gavin saves her though, because he takes the packet she pulls out of her bag and flips to the last few pages. She’s relieved when he smiles even though she doesn’t really know why.

“Here, you’re with me for the first act,” he says, folding the packet and showing it to her. “I think that means we get to be the Romanovs.”

“Which ones?”

He sighs heavily. “Well, I’d _love_ to be Nicholas but—”

“But you look like you’re thirteen,” Brittany finishes. “Do you think I can be Anastasia?”

Gavin looks at her like she’s got a third eye or purple hair. “Did you _read_ the packet? No way; Mama Monster herself is Anastasia the whole show, even when she goes back in time.”

Brittany frowns because she doesn’t understand how the Romanovs are time-travelers but they can’t have a talking bat. She’s about to ask Gavin to explain but Henrik walks in and everyone gets really quiet really fast.

He’s sterner than she remembers, or maybe that’s because he’s the teacher and she’s the kid who did ten questions out of thirty on her homework, and she just knows he’s going to ask her to answer number eleven. His chin is sharper, hair darker, eyes cooler. The stubble on his cheeks seems like it would grate against her skin like gravel if she ever touched it.

Brittany really, really wants to impress him.

He looks nothing like the encouraging, charming man she remembers from rehearsals. Brittany watches him as he walks around. She finally decides that he looks like the creepy choreographer from that ballerina movie Santana made her watch a million times. That one where Santana always says they should roleplay as Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis.

But anyway, he’s intimidating and that only makes Brittany sweat more about how little of the packet she’s actually read. She wishes, not for the first time, that she had Quinn’s speed-reading skills or Santana’s awesome memory. Or anyone else’s attention span, really. Brittany isn’t good at paying attention to anything but Santana or dance, and this isn’t really dance yet. This is just a guy who reminds her of Sue Sylvester’s smarter, less psychotic brother.

“Hello,” he says. It’s quiet but a little sinister, like how Brittany imagines Lord Tubbington would sound if he could speak. “You all probably remember me, either from auditions or the last tour. Unfortunately, I can’t return the favor for most of you. With me, you earn your name. You must make me remember it.” He flourishes his hands in a wide, swooping gesture. “I, of course, am Henrik, and no one ever forgets me.”

There are a few awkward coughs and nervous laughs before he continues.

“There’s no point in wasting time on introductions, so find your groups. One of the veteran dancers in each group will go over your respective choreography; Romanovs, with me.” He flicks his fingers and heads out the door to a room across the hall. Gavin taps Brittany excitedly on the shoulder, and she wishes she could muster up even half of his enthusiasm. Right now she’s just got dread bubbling in her stomach, like that one time she ate a bad piece of steak and it took four hours to come back up again.

They’re a set of seven, including Henrik, and he motions for them to sit. The second room is smaller, built for ensembles instead of groups. One wall has a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and Brittany misses her dance studio back at home. That has a room where all the walls are mirrors, and Brittany was getting pretty close to convincing the owners that the ceiling needed one, too. She just likes to be able to see everything when it comes to dancing.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Henrik starts. His voice is vaguely European, like a pretentious movie where the actors mispronounce words in a failed attempt to sound foreign, even though everyone watching knows they’re from Detroit or Seattle or whatever. “You will all have different groups for each act because there are too many characters to repeat. You might be a sneaky Boyar in the third act or a whispering Russian in the fourth. But in this act you are a Romanov, and you must embrace it. You must convince me and the audience that you are Russian, that you live for your country and, tragically, die for it as well.”

(He’s so serious about everything that Brittany wonders if he’s Russian himself. But his smile—when he finds it—is too nice to be native to the land of ice, vodka, and loneliness.)

“The Romanovs were a regal family to the end. They respected decorum, even if they broke the rules. When you are led to your execution, you will not fall apart. You will not cry senselessly. If you are Nicholas, you are stoic. You are honorable to a fault. If you are Alexis, you are quiet and unobtrusive because you die quickly. You’re thirteen, half asleep, and sick as a dog; what the fuck do you know? If you are one of the daughters, you are respectful and obedient. You have been made to think you’re posing for a picture—as a princess, this is something you do a lot.”

Brittany’s eyes are trained completely on him. His words are entrancing and terrifying in equal measure and Brittany can’t bring herself to look away.

“What about Alexandra?” one of the other girls asks.

“Alexandra,” Henrik smiles. “Alexandra is not a foolish woman. She has been in captivity for about a year prior to this. She knows that nothing good comes from an early morning photo session. She is devoted to her family, and she will protect them to the end. She asks for chairs because she and her son are too sick to stand. But, oh, she is a passionate woman. She does not submit easily. When she is told she is about to be shot, Alexandra Federovna Romanov gets angry.” He nods at the girl who brought up the subject of the Empress. “Good question.”

She beams and looks giddily at the people to her sides. They both quirk their eyebrows as if to say _of course you’re going to be Alexandra_ , and Brittany almost rolls her eyes because it doesn’t matter which Romanov they are unless they’re Anastasia, and that’s not going to happen.

“Alexandra was an interesting person,” Henrik continues. “By all accounts charming in private, though most of Russia viewed her as hostile and indifferent, if not completely callous, to the affairs of the country. She was a woman of ideas who preferred to influence from behind the scenes, and she was deeply rooted in her faith, which would prove to be her family’s downfall. There are four girls here and only one of you can play Alexandra.”

_Well duh_ , Brittany thinks, because the other three have to be the daughters, but she doesn’t say that out loud. Henrik doesn’t look like the kind of person who would appreciate the interruption of his speech with some simple math.

“You,” he says, looking at the girl. “You will be Olga.” Brittany has to stifle a giggle at her indignant face. Henrik moves down the line, casting roles on the spot. “Eyebrows, you’re Maria. Hello Kitty, you’ll be Tatiana. Cyclops, you’ve got Nicholas, which leaves Alexis for our very own Curly dwarf. And finally”—he turns to look at Brittany, who only looks back when Gavin nudges her—“we have our Alexandra.”

“Me?” Brittany blurts. She’s surprised at how much she’s flattered. She knows nothing about this family, certainly not as much as she should. What should she care who she plays?

“You,” Henrik confirms. “Do you know how Alexandra died?”

“…Surprised?” Brittany guesses. She sees Gavin duck his head to hide laughter.

Henrik isn’t smiling and Brittany starts to worry. “You haven’t read the packet.” It isn’t a guess. It’s just really disappointed truth.

Brittany blushes and shakes her head.

Henrik sighs and scratches the back of his neck. “Go,” he says, pointing to the door. “Come back tomorrow with it memorized or don’t come back at all.”

Brittany’s heart is pounding. This is so much worse than any embarrassing moment in high school. “Okay,” she mumbles, grabbing her bag on the way out.

“Brittany,” Henrik calls before she leaves, “I expect nothing less than perfection. Don’t disappoint.”

Brittany nods.

It’s only when she’s halfway down the block, eyes peeled for a good coffee place, that she realizes she never told him her name.

/

_“The last Russian dynasty began with a Michael and ended with a Michael…”_ Brittany reads for the fifth time. She leans her head against the wall and blinks her eyes exaggeratedly to clear out the spots. She’s been studying for a really long time.

She’s been texting Gavin all day and trying to forget about how much fun he’s having without her. He always tells her to get back to studying, and Brittany would totally do that except she’s really bad at studying. She tried to just read the packet but her mind kept wandering. So she took pictures of every page with her phone, thinking that maybe it would be easier to read because she doesn’t really like paper that much. And it worked for a while. But then she found a video that she took of Santana when they were at a barbecue with most of the New Directions. She had to hide her phone under her mattress right around the thirteenth playback.

_(“Brittany-cam!”_

_“Oh, gross, baby. Don’t take a picture—I look terrible.”_

_“I’m not taking a picture.”_

_“You’re pointing your phone at me, so if you’re not taking a picture, you’re recording me, which is ten times worse.”_

_“No way, it’s totally ten times better.”_

_“Britt, I’m all drunk and sweaty.”_

_“My favorite kind of Santana.”_

_“There are at least two guest rooms inside that you two are welcome to use. Please don’t scar any of us further.”_

_“Fuck off, Berry.”_

_“San, be nice.”_

_“I can’t be nice—the sun’s sapped it all out of me. Ack! No, don’t sit on me! I’m all clammy!”_

_“You’re also hot. Wow, you’re, like, really hot.”_

_“Exactly. And I can either be hot or I can be nice. I can’t be both.”_

_“Yes, you can.”_

_“It is literally physically impossible.”_

_“No, it isn’t. Let me prove it to you.”_

Every time the video cuts off Brittany goes to find her pictures, and she knows _that one_ right when she sees it. Sometimes she sees it in her sleep. The picture she snapped of them right after is all the evidence she’ll ever need that Santana is not only a good person, but the best person, too.)

Just when Brittany thinks she’s finally gotten on track with her studying, Santana’s face pops into her mind again and that look—the one Santana’s giving that’s everything Brittany dreamed of when she dreamed of love—it just completely derails her.

So pretty much she sucks at studying.

/

Gavin shows up at seven with Chinese food, even though Brittany ordered room service an hour and a half ago. She eats all of the Mongolian beef he gives her anyway, and it’s a nice break from Russian tragedy. Brittany is pretty sure Gavin inhales, like, an actual vat of wonton soup. She thinks he must be bigger on the inside than his tiny frame indicates, and she spends at least a full minute formulating the best way to ask him about bow ties and loneliness.

“So,” he says, slurping up some noodles, “are you feeling good about the Russians?”

“No,” Brittany grumbles. “They all died.”

“No, I mean do you think you know everything.”

“Oh. I don’t know,” Brittany shrugs. “I used to feel pretty confident about tests in high school and stuff and then I’d completely bomb them.”

“Well, do you want something else to focus on?”

Brittany nods her head eagerly. “Please.”

“Okay, well. Henrik taught us about half of the dance for the first act and I thought maybe we could practice.”

Brittany slumps her shoulders. “That’s really nice, Gav, but I’m just so exhausted right—”

“Britt, the thing is he told me to make sure you have it down by tomorrow morning or neither of us needed to come back.”

Tears shouldn’t come this easily, Brittany thinks. Not when she’s twenty two and a professional dancer. She shouldn’t be frustrated like she would get when she was ten and no one could find the right words to explain things. But she is, because the first person to speak her language is at the other end of the country and she can’t help. So Brittany cries and cries—loud, embarrassing gulps—and Gavin just clears away the food and holds her.

“I don’t understand, Gavin,” she wails. “I should be so happy right now because this is the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m touring with Lady Gaga, you know? But I’m bad at memorizing things and Santana is really far away and I’m just so sad.”

“Have you talked to her at all today?” he murmurs soothingly.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m scared to,” Brittany admits. “Santana always makes me feel better but I think I might feel worse if I talked to her right now and I would hate that. I hate that we’re in a weird place because if there’s anything I’m always 100% sure of, it’s Santana.”

“What happened?” he pries gently.

Brittany just sighs. “It’s a long story. If you want the short version, we’re both being really stupid at the same time, which is never good.”

“You’re not being stupid, Brittany.”

“You don’t even know what the problem is,” she teases.

“I know you’re not stupid,” he says, and Brittany kind of just stops for a second. It reminds her so much of Santana.

She sits up and wipes her eyes, pushing off Gavin into a standing position. “I need to make a call,” she says.

Gavin stands next to her and appraises her face. She watches him analyze her tired eyes, her sullen cheeks.

“Are you sure?’

“Yeah,” she nods. “Don’t go, though.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t even think about what time it is in California. She just needs Santana.

(Brittany almost cries when she picks up on the first ring.)

“Britt?”

“Hi,” Brittany sighs.

“You sound tired. Does that mean it was a good day of dancing?”

“I haven’t danced at all today,” Brittany grumbles.

“What?”

Brittany explains everything with weary words and as little frustration as she can muster, which doesn’t work. It doesn’t take that long to recount the day’s events because at least half of them involve how sad Brittany is to be away from Santana, and Brittany can’t exactly talk about those.

“I know it’s kind of crappy for me to put this all on you but it feels like high school again and I always hated history and now I don’t have my favorite study buddy to help me out.”

“Britt, you always have me,” Santana reassures. “Look, you said Gavin has to teach you the dance still, right? Why don’t you practice that for a while and come back to the boring stuff later?”

“I don’t think I can,” Brittany whines. “I can’t really work—”

“—Out of order, right,” Santana finishes. “Sorry, it’s been a while since we were in school.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, here’s what you’re gonna do, Britt.” (Brittany smiles because Santana always has a plan.) “Go take a walk. Find a bookstore, find a Starbucks, go buy a pair of shoes. You said you took pictures with your phone, right? So leave your phone with Gavin for, like, half an hour. Let him email all the pictures to me, and then call me when you’re back and I can test you.”

“Won’t you be at work?”

It’s Santana’s turn to sigh. Brittany only wishes she knew the reason. “Maybe for a few minutes but…there are some things I have to work out with Jay, I think.”

“Bad things?”

“Go take a walk, baby, and call me later, okay?”

She doesn’t find a bookstore or a Starbucks or a shoe store. Well, at least not any at which she wants to stop. Brittany spends half an hour finding jewelry shops and scouring the selections for the perfect ring. Brittany hasn’t left Santana at all, no matter how much it might feel like it. She will get married to that girl. She’s had it decided for years.

(Maybe Santana always has plans about the everyday things—the tests and the appointments and the schedules.

Brittany has big thing-plans, and she hasn’t had one fail yet.)

She doesn’t find a ring she likes but that isn’t a failure. That just means that in every city of this tour, she’s got some shopping to do.

She’s back at the hotel exactly half an hour later. Gavin is finishing up the Chinese food as Snooki or some other reality star Brittany can’t identify yells on the TV.

“No shoes?” he asks, slurping down some chow mein.

“Wasn’t looking for shoes.”

“Oh. Good walk anyway?”

“Yeah,” Brittany nods. “Did you send Santana all the pictures?”

“Ugh, yes,” Gavin groans dramatically. “I didn’t realize how long that packet was until I had to email 47 pictures.  Here.” He flips Brittany her phone. “She’s all yours.”

“Thanks, Gav.”

Santana picks up on the first ring again. “This is some crazy shit, Britt,” she says immediately, and Brittany has to giggle.

“Would you really expect anything less, considering whose tour I’m on?”

“I’m _serious_! This family is totally messed. Have you gotten to the bit about Rasputin yet? What a sleaze.”

“Hopefully I’ve gotten all of it, yeah.”

There’s rustling on Santana’s end—the swish of papers, something clunking to the ground, and Santana swearing. Santana swears about everything. Brittany kind of loves it.

“Okay, I have the pictures in front of me and I am totally ready for you to blow my mind with weird ass Russians.”

By the time Brittany finishes reciting everything she can remember, it’s almost nine. She could go to bed right now and sleep for fourteen hours, but she doubts she’s going to sleep at all.

“Did I do okay?” she asks nervously. She can feel her phone slide on her ear and she tries not to think about it too much because it’s kind of gross.

“Malibu Barbie,” Santana says in an eerily good impersonation of Sue Sylvester, “that was _outstanding_.”

“Really?” Brittany squeals.

“Really,” Santana laughs. “You got it all perfect.”

“Awesome,” Brittany sighs, relieved. “Now I just have to learn a dance perfectly by eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, but that’s the easy part,” Santana jokes.

“Yeah, maybe.” Brittany wants to tell Santana that the easiest thing she’ll ever do is talk to her, but the words kind of just sit on the back of her tongue. They’re probably watching her make a fool out of herself. “So, what are you up to?” she asks in a lame attempt to keep Santana on the phone.

“Britt…as much as I would love to stay and chat—and I really, _really_ would—we’ve both got things to do.”

“Right, you’ve got work.”

“Yeah, I, um—I might not have work for a while. I think I’m gonna go back to Lima for a bit.”

“Why?” Brittany frowns.

“I dunno,” Santana says quickly. It’s a lie and kind of a dumb one, but the more Brittany thinks about it, the more she realizes it was a pretty dumb question, too.  “I miss my mom, I guess. And I could use some space that isn’t…California.”

“Oh. Okay. How much space?”

“Um, well, if I were to let Sam look after our place for a while…”

Brittany scratches the back of her neck, thinking about what Santana’s implying. If she’s really being honest about it, Brittany left California behind the minute she agreed to be on the tour. Not that she doesn’t love it—it’s got Sam and Mercedes and her dance school and everything. But she just knows that there’s no way she can go back to teaching ten-year-olds how to salsa after spending probably a year and a half with professional dancers and also Lady Gaga. She’s got more to offer than that.

But she really, really loves LA. Brittany would be lying if she said she wouldn’t miss their apartment. It’s cute and perfect and they’ve spent three years building a life there. California is made of more than sunshine and beaches. It’s got the first lease they ever signed together; the first joint bank account; the receipt from the first trip to the grocery store after their 21st birthdays where they bought wine and beer and threw an _adult_ housewarming party (two years too late) just because they could.

Brittany’s always been one for change. The more change the better, double points if it all happens at once. She can’t handle a boring life. But the thing about California is that it wasn’t a boring life. Santana showed her that the most mundane things—calling plumbers, paying bills, the simple act of coming home from work—could be new and exciting every time because they did them together. Santana taught her the difference between boring and content, and boy did she work hard at making these past three years really content ones.

So she loves change. She just never thought that this kind of change would be happening any time soon.

“Yeah,” she finally says. “I can’t—you should do whatever you need to, San.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like we’re moving out for good, right?”

“Right,” Santana agrees just a moment too late. “I mean, our lease isn’t up until August 1st anyway.”

“Wow, that soon? Jeez.”

“Yeah, I, uh, looked it up today.” They don’t really make silences this awkward too often, Brittany thinks. “Anyway, you have a dance to learn and more important things to worry about, so I’ll let you know, okay?”

“San…”

“Love you, Britt.”

She hangs up before Brittany even has the chance to say it back.

Brittany groans and throws her phone on the bed. Gavin finally looks up from his reality TV vortex.

“How’s Santana?” he prods knowingly.

Brittany glares at him and turns off the television. “You know how some people get mad or sad or whatever and they eat their feelings?”

“Yeah…?”

“Teach me that dance.”

* * *

 

Brittany gets about two minutes of sleep. A minute and a half if you factor in the time it takes for her to realize she only got two minutes of sleep. But anyway, she has a brief history of the Romanovs memorized and she could probably pull off the dance in her sleep—which she can’t test because she hasn’t gotten any. Brittany’s been really, really productive and she’s super proud of herself.

And Henrik doesn’t really seem to care.

He walked in the room and Brittany immediately perked up, expecting him to drill her about either the packet or the dance. Instead he smiled at her and went to talk to one of the veteran dancers.  And when he finished with that and walked in her direction, Brittany got herself ready again. But he just grabbed some coffee from the table behind her.

She watched him do a million things that didn’t involve her, which is why she’s seething against a wall and Gavin is staying way the hell on the other side of the room.

Her last nerve snaps when they break into groups and he starts giving a speech like he didn’t just humiliate her the day before.

“Aren’t you going to make sure I know everything?” she huffs.

Henrik looks at her and suppresses a smile. “Yes, we’ll dance in a moment, Brittany.”

“No, like, give me a quiz or something. What if I slacked off last night and totally forgot about the packet?”

“Did you?”

“No, but—”

“Okay. So let me finish talking and then we can get to dancing.”

Brittany has danced in a state of blinding anger only three times in her life. One: when her first dance teacher yelled at her in front of the whole class for doing a plié wrong even though she was only four. Two: the first time Santana left her in the middle of the night. And three: right now, every time she has to look at Henrik’s stupid face. She’s angry because he won’t stop smirking and it makes Brittany feel like she’s been tricked. She hates being tricked. She’s angry because he singles her out every time she makes even the slightest misstep, but this is her first time dancing to the music. He isn’t being fair.

But mostly she’s angry because he’s so damn graceful. Brittany has always thought that male ballet dancers have something extra special that sets them apart from ballerinas. Because, like, the female body is already ten times more beautiful than any guy’s. And when guys do ballet, they look extra stocky and muscular in their leotards, and plus their junk is right out there for everyone to see. It’s hard not to look. (Everyone looks). But the best ballet dancers, they make their junk seem invisible, or at least they make you forget to see it. The best ballet dancers are graceful in spite of their bodies.

Henrik is better than that. Henrik moves like a girl. And still Brittany seethes.

/

(She seethes even deeper after a week has passed because Santana doesn’t really talk to her.

She’s in Lima, she’s fine, she’s off the phone after twelve seconds.

Maribel tries to intervene but Brittany doesn’t really want to hear it.

She just wants to dance.)

/

It feels like being in college again, only not the fun part of college. Not the part where she learns a sexy dance and teaches it to Santana naked. Not the part where Santana tells her how she learned about the muscles of the face in her psych class, and did she know that there’s one thing that we do that requires the coordination of thirty four facial muscles, the most important of which being the orbicularis oris? And certainly not the part where she asks Santana to tell her what this mysterious one thing is, and Santana, smiling, kisses her instead.

No, it’s more like the part where they were studying for finals, arguing for days and living off of cold pizza and horrible coffee; like the part where Brittany would come home exhausted and wake up the exact same way. It’s that part where you think you’re going to be in a bad mood forever and absolutely nothing you do is changing your mind at all. It’s that part where not even ice cream or crazy dancing session with your best friend can make you feel better.

Brittany is feeling that in spades because she’s got Gavin next to her and he brings over the Moose Tracks every night but it doesn’t cure anything. She’s just angry and sad all the time. It doesn’t help that Henrik is really temperamental, either. Some days Brittany feels like his favorite, and others she’s convinced she’ll get kicked back to LA any second. And that’s when she feels the worst because there isn’t anything in LA for her anymore. She doesn’t even know if she’s going to have a home there anymore.

The bit that really stings is the fact that she wants to talk to Santana about everything. She just doesn’t have the time.

(It all went downhill after that first phone call. They tried really hard to talk every day. _Hi, honey,_ she’d smile, and Santana would answer with a _How was your day, baby?_ And they were both exhausted and one of them always fell asleep instead of hanging up, but it was all they had so they dealt with it. And then, at the end of that first week, Brittany had fallen asleep before remembering to call Santana at all.

It was easier for one of them to forget a lot more after that. They forgot so much that it’s like they never even called each other in the first place. It’s like their phones aren’t capable of that at all, like even if Brittany called from the hotel it wouldn’t go through or something. She tried that once but she happened to catch Santana on her way out the door, and having a distracted conversation was worse than not having one at all, so she hasn’t tried it again.

Every time she thinks she’s ready, she just falls asleep).

So she texts when she can and Santana replies when she’s on a break at work—she works at Breadstix now; Maribel told her—and it isn’t like they hate each other. They’re not even really fighting. Sometimes their texts to each other have smiley faces and Brittany laughs at least once a day. But it’s such an abrupt change from the smiles and laughs that she’s gotten used to for the past four years. She’s gotten used to having Santana in her life.

Because when they were in middle school and high school, Santana was the extraordinary part of her routine. Santana was something special, something she wasn’t always guaranteed. Sure, they’d go everywhere together and they practically lived at each other’s houses. But there was still a barrier—parents, schoolwork, fighting when emotions got to be too much.

In New York and then LA, Santana became the best ordinary Brittany could have ever hoped for. Texting sporadically when she knows they won’t be meeting at home later, when they’ve done that every day for the past four years, is indescribable torture. It’s like she’s being forced to watch _August Rush_ on a loop and, after falling in love with the characters and getting caught up in their journeys to find each other, knowing every time that she’s going to be denied the hug at the end. She knows she can’t change the outcome every time it happens, but the romance and promise of the story make her forget. At least twice a week Brittany has to consciously erase an _Okay, love you, see you at home_ text, and it hurts.

But they’re still engaged and they talk all the time about the wedding, so it’s okay. They agree on a June wedding, whenever it’s going to happen. Santana manages to talk Brittany down from pink, even though Brittany still feels like pink makes her balanced. Santana has this thing for fall colors even though it’s a summer wedding and, well, Brittany loves purple just as much as pink, so she isn’t really losing anything. She tells Gavin that their colors are purple and blue and she can just hear Santana correcting her. ( _“Indigo and slate, Britt,”_ she’d say, because Maribel is embracing the change of having Santana back at home and going on a decorating kick).

So they’re good. Sometimes Brittany sends her emails and Santana always sends really long ones back. Those are Brittany’s favorite things to read before she falls asleep at night. She always makes herself stay awake long enough to read a whole one.

But mid-July, Santana drops a bomb.

She calls at eight, as Brittany’s settling into bed with some rerun on basic hotel cable and her phone in hand as she tries to decide which of Santana’s emails to read. She almost hits the decline button as a reflex, but when she realizes that Santana’s actually calling her, she punches ‘Accept’ like hers is the least-sensitive touch screen ever.

“Hey!” she blurts in surprise.

“Hey, baby. What are you watching tonight?”

“I think it’s _The X Files_. Didn’t that show end ten years ago or something?”

“Longer than that, I think. Is it any good?”

Brittany shrugs and curls up under the covers. “I dunno, these two want to get into each other’s pants really bad but I don’t think it’s going to happen. Could be really annoying, could be entertaining.”

“Well, let me know and maybe we’ll have a giant Netflix marathon when the tour finishes.”

“Yeah, okay. Anyway, what are you doing? Are you off tonight?”

“Yeah, I wanted to have a free night so I could call you.”

Santana sounds nervous, so Brittany mutes the TV. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Santana laughs. “Don’t get so stressed. I just, well, I wanted to remind you that our lease is up in a couple of weeks. I got an email from the landlord asking if we want to renew.”

“Well you said yes, right? I mean, you’re not going to live with your mom forever.”

Santana’s pause is too heavy to mean nothing. “I don’t think I can go back, Britt.”

“Santana, that’s our _home_. You can’t give it up while I’m about to be halfway across the world.”

“I’m not going to,” Santana says quickly. For as short as her temper sometimes is, she’s also really good at placating. Sometimes it’s infuriating. “I wouldn’t ever do that, Britt. Give me a little more credit.”

“Well I don’t see what other options you have if you’re not going back.”

“Mercedes and Sam are renting by the month for their shitty apartment and their couch is falling apart.”

Brittany covers her eyes with her hand and sighs. “Santana…”

“Look, you don’t have to worry about any of your stuff and I don’t have to fly back there to move it all, and we trust Sam and Mercedes. This is a perfect solution.”

“To a problem that you created.”

“Which is why _I’m_ the one solving it.”

“You can’t just make these decisions without giving me enough time to weigh in.”

“What, like you did when you left for the tour or when you turned your mom into our wedding planner?”

“This isn’t—”

“I can’t go back to LA, okay? I’d be farther away from you and it fucking smells like you in there. I’ll make Sam change the sheets.”

“This isn’t the time for payback,” Brittany finishes.

“This isn’t payback,” Santana retorts. “This is a less sucky solution for a situation that already really sucks.”

By the way her voice gets little and defensive, Brittany can tell Santana is at that perfect intersection of pain and obstinacy.

“Fine,” she sighs. “But the next time you have a big thing to ask of me, you better give me more than two weeks to think about it.”

“Got it,” Santana replies tersely.

When she turns up the volume on the television again, she decides that this whole battle of will-they-won’t-they is really annoying.

Even if they will, it doesn’t mean they’ll be happy forever.

* * *

 

The next day, she manages to get it out of Sam that he and Mercedes have already moved in. And not only that, they’ve been living in her house, sleeping in her bed and eating at her table, for a week.

So she keeps calling Santana even though she’s supposed to be at work. She calls once, twice, seventeen times until she finally picks up.

“I swear, if you’re not dead you’re about to be—”

“Here’s how it’s going to work, Santana,” Brittany interrupts. “You’re going to fly back to LA and get your laptop or have Sam send it to you or buy another one. Because if I had been able to hear your voice or see your face at all this past week, I would have known you were hiding something from me, and I wouldn’t be angry at you right now. So we’re going to Skype at least once a week and I don’t care if you have to change your work schedule.”

She’s so ready for Santana’s heated words, the ones she always aimed at other people in high school. She’s so ready to shoot them down with just as much passion.

What she gets instead is the Santana that other people rarely see. That’s kind of how it always works with them.

“Yeah, okay,” Santana whispers. “I’m really sorry, Britt.”

“I know you are, sweetheart. I’ll be really happy when you don’t have to apologize so much though.”

They laugh together. It feels nice.

/

Less than a week later, when the tour starts on the twenty ninth, Brittany is dead dog-tired. It takes a lot of stage makeup to erase the dark circles under her eyes and Henrik scowls at her the whole night.

But the memory of a two-hour Skype session that ended in smiling tears and yawning is the only reason Brittany knows how to move at all. 


	8. Part Two: Quinn (half time)

There are a lot of things in Quinn’s life that make her think. Things like her handwriting or how she just doesn’t like soda from a can. And then there are people who do the same, like Noah, Brittany and Santana, and always Beth. _Especially_ Beth. And then there are the feelings these things and people bring up. Sometimes happiness, sometimes splashes of bitter coffee or maybe the yearning of a too-distant childhood toy, but always, always a moment to stop. A moment in between the memories and expectations where her mind empties, a conveyor belt pausing ever so slightly before trundling on. Sometimes Quinn thinks about just that moment for hours.

But there is one entity—and Quinn means entity when she says it; she always means the words she chooses—in Quinn’s life that manages to do all of those things. One presence that makes her think and feel and stop because sometimes she still doesn’t really understand.

Quinn is speaking, of course, of Rachel Berry.

If Rachel Berry can invoke all of those things, basically everything, in her, then it stands to reason that everything is Rachel’s fault—which might be overstating things a little, but that statement holds credence in this particular situation.

Santana plants the seed, but Rachel cultivates it. She calls one night in early April, while Quinn is doing the dishes and Beth is watching a movie. It’s a rare night off—between school and the hotel at which she works, she doesn’t have a lot of free time. Mostly Quinn just listens, happy to be a sounding board when she can still rinse plates and bowls. And Rachel is happy to talk, as she always is, so it works out pretty well for both of them.

She’s feeling the same end-of-the-year panic as Quinn is, only Rachel is really feeling it to her core. She’s tossing around ideas like _take a break from Broadway_ and _maybe I got fixated on acting too soon_. Those are the ideas that make Quinn almost drop her dishes.

“Take a break from Broadway?” she blurts. “Rachel, that’s all you’ve talked about since forever. Every third word that comes out of your mouth is about Broadway.”

“I know,” Rachel sighs, “and it’s…I’m starting to realize that it’s stifling. I don’t have any auditions or shows lined up, I don’t have a job because I’ve been trying to _get_ auditions and shows, so what am I supposed to do when I graduate in a month? I’ll run through my savings trying to pay rent and then I’ll be homeless, and—”

“Stop, stop, stop. You’re not going to be homeless. Your dads would never allow that.”

“I can’t go back to Lima, Quinn.”

Quinn adjusts the phone on her shoulder and drops a fork into the dishwasher. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Santana suggested doing something related to theater that isn’t acting, like arranging music, but…”

“What’s wrong with that? That sounds like a good idea.”

“I don’t know; I wouldn’t know where to start or anything.”

“That’s a silly reason not to start at all.”

“Well, I suppose you have a point,” Rachel reluctantly agrees.

Quinn laughs. “Why do you always have to run good advice through me before you actually take it?”

“I don’t _always_.”

“Oh, okay. So you asked someone else’s opinion before you said yes to Finn.”

“Ugh, why do you always bring that up?”

“Because it always wins the argument.”

“You know, you can be as pedantic as I am sometimes.”

“You’re only pedantic sometimes?”

“Thank you for proving my point. And to think, I was wondering just yesterday why we weren’t friends sooner in high school.”

“Because you were incredibly self-involved and I was a little crazy.”

“I wasn’t _that_ self-involved.”

“Rachel, you didn’t think the sun revolved around you. You _were_ the sun.”

“I’ll have you know that I still am the sun. It’s simple logic: if all suns are stars and I am a star, then I am a sun.”

“That’s not how it—”

“Bask in my glow, Quinn Fabray!”

“Right, this is the perfect example of a girl who wants to _stop_ acting.”

Rachel shuts up pretty quickly.

(Quinn has always had a way with the truth).

“Look, I get it,” Quinn continues. “I’m graduating too, and when I do I’ll have a useless English degree, a crappy desk job at a hotel, and a half-finished novel to show for it. So yeah, I’d like to have something different right now, too. Something with more direction than ‘I’ll get published when it’s done.’ But that would mean starting completely over.”

“So are you saying I shouldn’t do something new?”

“No, I’m saying you’re at the perfect place in your life to start over.”

“Oh.” Rachel sighs. “I hate it when you’re reasonable.”

/

Quinn doesn’t agree with that at all. She likes being reasonable. Reasonable is easy and it makes sense (obviously).

She thinks all this as she walks down the biography aisle in a cute used bookstore. (She feels guilty every time she comes in here because it feels like cheating. Noah works at a big book chain and he says he took the job because it was the only one available, but he’s adorably loyal and sometimes he brings home books with titles that make her laugh for days. But she can’t ever give up this tiny shop because books that have been felt by other people mean so much more.)

Quinn never really loved history in school, but she loves biographies. History was so dry. She paid attention because she loves learning, and it was easy to memorize facts and dates. And the politics of everything, that was sometimes interesting, but she wanted to know more about the people. She wanted to know why things like the French Revolution and the Civil War happened. She wanted to know why Lincoln and Kennedy and Lennon were assassinated.

(History books barely talk about Lennon, which was another problem Quinn had with them. The Beatles are thrown in haphazardly with the sixties, as a force for social revolution, when they were so much more than that. History books also won’t use the word assassination when they talk about John Lennon. Politicians get assassinated. Religious leaders get assassinated. Musicians get murdered like everyone else.

Quinn looked it up one day, and it was right there in the dictionary, the reason John Lennon’s death was an assassination.

_“Assassinate, v.:  to destroy or harm treacherously and viciously: to assassinate a person’s character.”_

When you have as much character as he did, you don’t just get murdered.)

So Quinn likes biographies because they’re all about people. She likes biographies about historical figures with which she’s already familiar and she likes biographies about people she’s never heard of. Sometimes she finds biographies about the bad guys just because there’s something appealing about that uncomfortable feeling you get when you realize evil people are people, too.

But today she doesn’t find a biography about an evil or unknown person. Today she finds a biography about a sad, soulful woman. Billie Holiday’s picture is surrounded by narrow, scrawling letters. _Lady Sings the Blues,_ it proclaims. It isn’t a particularly attractive book, just a thin, tattered paperback, and she almost puts it back after she flips through it. But then she sees a name on the upper right corner of the cover—Marla—and a handwritten message on the inside. ( _“Marla: Thanks for everything, always. You’re terrific! Merry Christmas, Ruth.”_ ) The same handwriting was used to write the note and Marla’s name on the front, and it’s for this reason that Quinn buys the book. She doesn’t know who Ruth is, the note is almost twenty years old, but it’s a touch that makes her smile.

Besides, it’s only three dollars and she won’t have wasted anything if she decides she doesn’t like it.

/

(Four hours later and she wonders why she ever hesitated to pick this up in the first place.

This book is so many things and Quinn wants to write about all of them).

/

It’s difficult for everyone after that. Quinn is irritable because she feels guilty for abandoning her novel, Noah is irritable because Quinn is closing herself off again—he said he’d get used to it when she really started writing, even though she promised him he wouldn’t have to—and Beth is just in the middle of everything and so confused.

Noah plays Mr. Dad just as well as he always does, working a seven-to-three shift so he can pick Beth up from school, which leaves Quinn to take the mornings. She’d really love to be there in the afternoons, the arms into which Beth happily runs after a good day with her teacher and friends, but with classes and the hotel, that just isn’t possible. It’s okay though, because Noah doesn’t know how to cook bacon or pancakes, and no child of Quinn’s is going to start her days without a proper breakfast.

So Beth gets her mornings and Noah gets her nights. He comes home from work, gives her a quick kiss because she’s usually on her way out the door, and falls asleep after he’s made dinner for Beth. And he wakes up again when Quinn gets home at midnight, exhausted even though seven hours at the front desk shouldn’t be that taxing. He’s sprawled on the couch, flipping through a late-night movie or a sports talk show and he always smiles at her, even though he’s exhausted, too.

(“You should go to bed,” she always tells him.

“I can’t sleep without seeing both my girls,” he says back every night, and Quinn melts and feels three times worse.)

Sometimes she doesn’t melt when he says it. Sometimes she rolls her eyes and wishes he were asleep so she could get some quality alone time for her writing. Those are the nights she ends up at the kitchen table at three in the morning, poring over Billie’s autobiography and picking out the important quotes. Sometimes she just wants to highlight the whole book.

Noah finds her one night as she’s composing another email to Rachel, who has latched on to this idea almost more fervently than she has.

“Babe, it’s late. Come to bed,” he says, wiping his eyes.

“Just a little more, I need to finish this thought.”

“Rachel isn’t going to email back right away. You know she has that crazy sleep schedule.”

“Yeah, but I’ll forget by then.”

“Write yourself a note.” He pads his way into the kitchen, opening the fridge even though Quinn knows he isn’t going to eat anything. He’s still a guy, though. It’s just what they do.

“Five minutes and I promise I’m there.”

Her fingers whirr across the keyboard. Behind her, Noah sighs. Internally, she echoes the sentiment. It’s not fair to him or Beth, and she feels bad that she doesn’t think she can stop it. She definitely feels bad because she isn’t trying. Externally, she just keeps typing.

“I’ll hold you to those five minutes,” Noah says as he kisses her cheek, placing a glass of chocolate milk next to her computer. Her favorite instant calming potion.

She gets to bed an hour after that, not five minutes, but she feels better for having sent the email. It’s what writing does to her—sucks up every part of her that’s useful at everything else until she’s gotten it all out of her system. It’s like, she wants to be a good mom and girlfriend and person, but sometimes she can only be a writer.

Quinn just wishes these sometimes didn’t last for months on end.

* * *

 

Three weeks later, Quinn has forty-odd pages of a script, Rachel is living across the hall, and Noah is more Jewish than ever.

(When Rachel shows up, he smiles and says that his favorite hot Jew is back in his life, and Beth—nosy, curious little Beth—asks what that means. It isn’t that they’ve avoided religion when it comes to raising Beth; she knows Quinn and Noah come from different backgrounds. It’s just that Quinn doesn’t want Beth to grow up blindly trusting any religion, no matter the denomination.

She knows full well how that can really screw up a kid.)

It’s really odd, having Rachel Berry back in her life again. She’s loud and dramatic and yet Quinn finds comfort in her. She nags and nags constantly about the script, but it’s a familiar sort of nagging. Like the annoying cousin who gets considerably less annoying when you only see them once in ten years. The problem is that as much as Quinn wants to argue with Rachel, she makes a lot of good improvements and clearly knows her way around musical theater. Quinn could totally write this play on her own. It just wouldn’t be a musical or very well-staged.

So she tries not to explode at Rachel too much and emails Santana instead. It’s covert. She sends over the pre-approved bits of the book and starts adding unedited stuff. Quinn does this secretly because she knows how protective Rachel already is over the musical. She’d frown her deepest frown if she knew someone else was reading new material before she was.

It isn’t like Santana’s edits are about writing anyway. She isn’t Stephenie Meyer, sure, but she isn’t Quinn either. Even if she has something to say about Quinn’s writing, Quinn doesn’t pay attention. Santana’s her fact-checker, her mood-checker, her Billie-checker.

Rachel knows a lot about music. Quinn knows a lot about words. Santana knows a lot about Billie Holiday. She reads Quinn’s words and tells her which ones Billie would say, which ones Billie would think. Quinn has read her already tattered paperback to bits. She’s scoured every inch of Billie Holiday’s autobiography and highlighted so many things the pages look like a neon rainbow.

And yet. There is a connection, an intuition, that Quinn is missing. She wonders what it is sometimes, because she really thinks she should have it. She’s an old soul, for one. Her wardrobe is littered with cardigans and kitten heels. She still sends letters. One of her literature professors told her that her writing “reeks of Fitzgerald.” (He didn’t care much for American writers). So it isn’t like Billie’s world is going over Quinn’s head. She loves Billie’s world. She’s pretty sure she’d thrive in it.

Sometimes she thinks the connection is pain, but if it is, it’s some specific kind that she hasn’t felt yet. Which is all kinds of ridiculous because Quinn has felt more pain than most people. Insecurity, abandonment, neglect, guilt, hostility, disillusionment, doubt—you name it, she’s felt it. But as much as she rereads and rewrites, she still hasn’t completely felt Billie Holiday.

She gets jealous of Santana sometimes, for being so in tune with a part of Quinn and Rachel’s musical. It must be nice, she thinks, to be a soulful, charismatic troublemaker.

And then Santana calls her in August and Quinn remembers what the other side of soulful looks like.

(Heartbroken).

/

“Hold on, Rachel, my phone’s ringing. Go play with Beth.”

“Excuse me, Quinn. I’m not your child. You can’t order me around.”

Quinn just ignores her and retreats to her bedroom. Santana hasn’t called her in weeks, but they’ve been talking, so she knows all the drama that’s going on with Brittany. It’s the kind of thing she would have lived for in high school. She would have loved the chance to prove that she was better than Santana. Now she just feels sad and helpless.

“Hey, S. What’s up?”

“Hey.” Santana’s voice is gravelly and restrained.

“Uh oh. That doesn’t sound like a happy Santana.”

“I’m tired, that’s all.” Quinn can imagine her shrugging, maybe flipping her hair as if personally offended by the suggestion that she might be less than pleased with her life. “What are you doing?”

“Working on the book with Rachel, though she’s in the living room playing with Beth right now.”

“Willingly?” Santana scoffs.

“No, I made her. She’s probably trying to teach Beth all about Barbra Streisand, which she’ll find pretty impossible. I don’t keep any musicals in this place.”

“Yes, you do. They’re hidden in the back of your nightstand. Jeez, you’ve probably worn out _The Man of La Mancha;_ you used to play it so many times.”

“Shut up, she’ll hear you!”

“Can she hear through walls?”

“This is Rachel Berry we’re talking about, Santana. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Yeah,” Santana laughs. “Yeah, that’s Rachel.”

“Why’d you call me anyway?”

“I, um, I dunno. Britt’s probably dancing right now and Lima’s boring. I just…well.” She sighs. “I have the night off and I don’t want to be alone.”

“Oh, well then I have the perfect solution for that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, gimme a minute.”

Quinn rests her phone speaker-side-down on her shoulder and walks back into the living room. She expects to find Rachel scouring her movie selection, looking for one that meets her ridiculous dramatic standards. Instead, Rachel is lying on the couch as Beth reads Dr. Seuss in a loud, stilted voice. Quinn hates to interrupt them. But they’re the best medicine.

“Hey, Rach,” she murmurs, hoping not to disturb Beth’s reading. She’s getting better every day. But both of them look up and Rachel raises her eyebrows inquisitively. “Why don’t you guys follow me? I have someone who wants to talk to you.”

“Is it Horton?” Beth squeals excitedly.

“No,” Quinn smiles. “Someone totally better. Come on.”

She leads them back to her room and puts her phone on her bed, hitting the speaker button. Beth is busy playing with something on Quinn’s dresser, but she guides her closer to the phone and tickles her stomach.

“Say hi, monkey,” she says softly.

Beth cranes her head to look up at Quinn. “Say hi to who?”

There’s a sound somewhere in between a laugh and a cry on the other end of the line. “Hey, Little B,” Santana says.

Beth rushes up to the phone. “Santana! Hi!” she yells.

Quinn grabs Beth’s collar and pulls gently, easing her away from the phone so she doesn’t blow out Santana’s ear drums.

“Santana, can I tell you—um, did you know that elephants can hear things really far away?”

“Really?”

(Quinn smiles because Santana always treats Beth like her conversations are the most interesting things in the world. Maybe this one is right now, when everything else that Santana has to say is so sad).

“Yeah, Mommy got me a book on elephants ‘cause I really like to read about Horton and then I was reading today and I remembered.”

“Oh, well, Horton must be the best elephant because he hears that really tiny Who, right?”

“Yeah! Mommy said the Whos come back in another book but I can’t read that one until Christmas.”

“Yeah, your mom’s totally right about that. That book is magical. You can’t spoil it. Besides, Christmas isn’t that far away.”

“Will you read it with me? Because I read with Rachel today but I think she fell asleep.”

“I did not!” Rachel huffs. “Hi, Santana,” she adds.

“Hey, Rach,” Santana laughs.

“But will you read it with me, you and Big B?” Beth continues.

“Who?"

“Auntie Britt, duh!” Beth answers. “’Cause you call me Little B so she’s Big B.”

“Oh.” It’s a new nickname and that’s half of the reason Santana’s pausing.

(The other half makes Quinn want to reach through the phone and squeeze the sadness right out of her.)

“Well, I don’t know if we’ll visit you guys in time for Christmas. Auntie Brittany”—Santana coughs and both Rachel and Quinn frown—“well, she’s traveling all over the world dancing right now. But maybe the next time we come over I’ll read one of my favorite books with you, how’s that?”

“Is it a good book?”

“It’s better than that. It’s a _great_ one.”

“What is it?” Beth squeals excitedly.

“I can’t tell you that, kiddo. It’d spoil the surprise.”

“Pleeeease?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“No, they aren’t. You’re talking to me!”

“Okay,” Quinn intercepts. “I think it’s time for you to eat some dinner.”

“No, I wanna talk to Santana,” Beth whines.

“But it’s dinner time and you have to eat. Go pick something from the fridge and I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I’ll call you again soon, okay, Beth?” Santana chimes in. “You just keep thinking about how much fun we’ll have reading together.”

“Okay.”

“Alright. Love you, squirt.”

“Bye!” Beth runs off, leaving Quinn and Rachel to shake their heads.

“She returns the sentiment, obviously,” Quinn says, smiling.

“Yeah, she's a good kid.” Santana clears her throat. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem. How are you doing?”

“Lonely.”

“When’s the last time you talked to Britt?”

“A few days ago. She’s exhausted; I feel bad for keeping her awake.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind talking to you, Santana,” Rachel reassures.

But Santana’s response is grumpy. “I know. That’s the problem.”

Quinn and Rachel share a confused look, but Rachel is the one who actually speaks.

“I don’t follow—”

“It sucks, okay?” Santana retorts, defensive and loud. “God, it’s like, how can I Skype with her all the time and then go to bed or work or whatever? It’s all this fucking long distance shit, you know? I can’t do it. I get so happy every time I see her on Skype and then it’s like the world ends when we hang up. And she’s wherever the hell she is and I’m fucking stuck in Lima, and did you know that yesterday I almost dropped by McKinley? It’s been four years since I set foot in that hellhole and now I suddenly have the urge to hang out with curly-haired vest fetishists.”

It’s sad. It’s sad that Santana is sad. Quinn should not want to laugh as much as she does.

(But it’s a good thing she’s got Rachel next to her to bail her out because Jesus, she’s right at the tipping point).

“While I find this diatribe completely compelling, I also think it’s prudent to point out that you are quite fond of Mr. Schue, Santana. Maybe you should stop by and see him.”

“Why, so he can beam pity at me with his forehead wrinkles and puppy eyes?”

Quinn does laugh this time.

“I can’t go back to that choir room, okay?” Santana continues, ignoring Quinn though her voice does get a touch louder. “Hell, I’d grab a drink with him before I dropped in on a Glee rehearsal if that wouldn’t be so fucking awkward.”

“Why is that awkward?” Rachel asks.

Quinn can feel the judgment before Santana even starts speaking. “You can’t grab drinks with your teachers. That’s messed up.”

“I have drinks with my professors all the time,” Quinn chimes in.

“You’re in college and you’re an English major; of course you do.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re all pretentious wanks. Don’t get all uppity; I’ve seen _Dead Poets Society_.”

Quinn thinks Brittany must finally be rubbing off on Santana because there wasn’t a bit of that tangent that made sense. By the way Rachel shrugs, she doesn’t understand it either.

“Okay…well, look, it’s not like this is the last time you’re ever going to see her, right?”

“Uh, until 2018, yeah it is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Are you saying you’re not going to go to a single concert? She’s still in the country.”

“I can’t go to a concert and watch her dance and not come home with her.”

“Oh my god, are you an idiot? So you’re just not going to go?”

“This makes sense!” Santana yells.

“Santana, this makes sense like you dating Sam made sense.”

There is a long, long silence.

“She means it doesn’t make sense at all,” Rachel says.

“Yeah, I got that, Rachel.”

“Just making sure,” Rachel mumbles.

“How long is the tour stateside?” Quinn asks.

“I don’t know,” Santana murmurs. “They haven’t released all the dates yet.”

“Did you ask Brittany?”

“No. Why would I?”

Quinn grits her teeth and has to stop herself from punching the bed. “You’re a jackass, Santana. I have to go make dinner for Beth. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

She gets up. Her knees crack and make her feel physically as old as she feels emotionally whenever she argues with Santana. It would be so much easier if they could just bicker like six-year-olds, like Rachel and Santana do.

But they don’t—they have adult, midlife-crisis kind of conversations all the time—so she leaves Santana and Rachel to their bickering, except this time it seems like Rachel has decided to play the role of the omniscient sage. If she weren’t so haughty, Quinn would be sold on the performance.

Beth is waiting for her in the kitchen, tearing up a napkin as she sits at the table, head resting forlornly in her hand. There is a bottle of syrup by her elbow.

“Why the long face, Beth?”

Beth puts down the napkin and looks up. “I have a long face?”

“It means you look sad,” Quinn smiles.

“Oh. How come Brittany can’t visit us?”

Quinn sits across from Beth. “You know Lady Gaga?”

“Yeah, Daddy says I can’t listen to her music until I’m 25.”

“Well, Daddy’s just being silly. I have some of her old music; maybe I’ll play it for you.”

Beth perks up. “Really?”

“We’ll see. Anyway, Brittany is dancing at Lady Gaga’s concerts. And Lady Gaga puts on concerts for a really long time.”

“Like for a whole day?”

“No,” Quinn laughs. “Like every night for a year or so.”

Beth’s eyes widen. “Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa. And she puts on concerts all over the world so Brittany does a lot of dancing.”

“Is she gonna come here?”

Quinn frowns, thinking. “You know, I think she will. Chicago’s a pretty important city. You wanna call Brittany and make sure?”

Beth sits up immediately. “Yeah!”

Quinn laughs. “Okay, well, she’s probably dancing right now so she might not answer. So what do you want to say if we have to leave a message?”

Beth cranes her head and thinks. “Um, that Santana is sad and Brittany should tell Lady Gaga to come to Chicago or even Leem—Lime— _Ohio_ so Santana won’t be sad anymore.”

“That sounds perfect. Let me get my phone from Rachel and then we’ll call her, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Oh hey, what did you pick for dinner?”

“Breakfast!” Beth chirps. “Can we have pancakes?”

Quinn chuckles and scoots her chair backwards. “I think so. If you’re really careful, you can get the eggs and bacon out of the fridge while I go get my phone.”

Quinn shakes her head as she walks back to her room. She doesn’t know what Noah was like as a child and she can’t really remember being like this herself, so she isn’t sure where Beth gets her unfailing exuberance. She thinks maybe Brittany babysat one too many times in high school.

“…Look, I get how distance is, okay?” Rachel is saying. Quinn stops at the doorway and listens. “Those first couple of months, when Finn and I were still trying to make it work, it was terrible. But it’s so completely worth it, Santana, even if you only see her once.”

“I kind of lied before, about the dates,” Santana mumbles.

“You did? Why?”

“Quinn’s a jackass too, sometimes.” Rachel laughs and Quinn has to stifle one of her own. “Anyway, she’s here at least until New Year’s. But after that…she’s overseas until next March. Like, the March after the one that hasn’t happened yet. She said she would marry me and now we won’t be able to until almost two _years_ from now.”

“Santana…” Rachel sounds like she’s on the verge of tears and Quinn has half a mind to barge in and end the call before it dissolves into blubbering on both ends. “You have to see her, Santana. I’m sure she’s coming to Chicago or Cleveland or something.”

“Do you know what the worst part was, when Britt was dating Artie? It wasn’t that she wasn’t dating me or even that it was Artie because whatever, he’s not so bad. It was the fact that she was right there, next to me in Glee or math or any fucking class we had, and I had to watch. It was the most I’ve ever hurt, Rach, because she was there smiling and laughing and I could have reached out and touched her if I wanted to. But I never did because I was terrified. I can’t…I can’t do that again. It would be awesome to see her perform. I’d be fucking bawling the whole time and then we’d have some _amazing_ sex. But after a few hours she’d leave and we’d both know that that was the last time we’d see each other for a year. A year, Rachel. It’s just—it’s better if we just Skype and call each other because I can’t…I can’t. I just can’t.”

Quinn chooses this time to step in and end the conversation because Rachel looks like she’s about to deliver a lecture. Like, Quinn is surprised that, when she looks down to check, Rachel’s hands aren’t shuffling notecards.

She snaps quietly to get Rachel’s attention. _I need my phone,_ she mouths, jangling her fingers by her ear in the international telephone signal. Someday she’ll find an explanation for why it looks exactly like the gesture for “Cowabunga!”

“Listen, Santana, I have to go. Just, think about what I said, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever. Nice talking to you,” she adds, a reluctant attempt at sincerity. It only works because Rachel already knows she means it.

“Okay, bye.” Rachel hangs up with a sigh, puffing her cheeks out wearily. “Jeez…”

“Yeah, this is rough,” Quinn agrees. “Anyway, Beth and I are making breakfast for dinner if you want to grab your gross vegan pancake mix.”

“I’d love to,” Rachel smiles. “Why do you need your phone?”

“Beth wants to call Brittany…I’ll explain later,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Go get your stuff; I’m starving.”

Quinn follows Rachel out of the bedroom, turning off the light as she goes. She expects to see a mess in the kitchen when she gets there—Beth has never been a patient one where pancakes are involved—but Beth is still just sitting at the table, waiting in silence. The eggs and bacon are across from her because she still can’t reach the counter.

“You ready?” Quinn says, pulling up her contact list. “You know what you want to say?”

“Yeah!” Beth nods.

“Okay. Be real quiet when it rings and don’t start talking until the voice mail stops.”

Beth nods again.

It rings four times and goes to voicemail, just like Quinn thought it would. In the wake of the conversation she’s just had, the message that plays almost makes her cry.

_“Britt, you’re supposed to say something like, ‘This is Brittany’s phone; I’m not here, so leave a message.’”_

_“But they already know it’s my phone. They called me, didn’t they?”_

_“Yeah, but—”_

_“You have too many rules.”_

_“No, no kissing! No kissing until you do it righ—”_

The beep cuts off Santana’s recorded voice and Quinn nods to Beth.

“Hi, Britt! It’s Beth and Mommy. Um, we were calling to say that Santana’s sad and, and you’re dancing, and—Mommy, I forgot.”

Quinn chuckles and kisses the top of Beth’s head. “Britt, I know you’re crazy busy, but I have a sneaky plan to make you and Santana feel better. It just depends on if you can get us tickets to one of your shows. Call back when you have time, okay? No rush. Love you.”

“I love you more!” Beth yells, getting it in quickly before Quinn hits ‘end call’. “ _Now_ can we have pancakes?”

The door opens. Quinn assumes it’s Rachel coming back with her food, but—as happens very rarely in her life—Quinn is wrong.

“Did I hear something about pancakes?” Noah shouts as he takes off his shoes. “Oh, hey Rach.”

“Daddy!” Beth squeals, running out of the room.

They’re all in the kitchen a few moments later, Beth balancing on Noah’s hip. “Did I hear that right? Are we making pancakes for dinner?”

“You did, and we are,” Quinn says, puckering up as he leans down for a kiss. “Rachel even brought her gross stuff so she could join.”

“It’s not gross, Quinn; if you would just _try_ it—”

“Does that mean you’re making bacon?” Noah interrupts.

Quinn rolls her eyes. “You’re a terrible Jew.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault pigs are so delicious. Right, pumpkin?” he asks, turning his head toward Beth. He raises his hand and waits.

Beth just giggles and high-fives him.

Quinn rolls her eyes again and starts making batter.

/

It’s almost nine by the time Quinn and Rachel can get back to work, which wouldn’t be so bad if Rachel weren’t set on completely reworking everything they already have.

“We can’t _start_ with the Carnegie performance; we’re ending with that,” Quinn says, her hair three times poofier than it needs to be because it’s so full of that special brand of insanity only Rachel incites.

“We can do both, Quinn. As an English major, I’m sure you’re quite well-versed in the idea of a frame narrative.”

“Sure, and so is every high school student and musical theater fan. _Wicked, Les Mis, Phantom of the Opera_ …it’s been done before, Rach. _Frankenstein_ is a frame narrative. _To Kill a Mockingbird_ is a frame narrative. It’s trite. It’s lazy.”

“Fine.” Rachel crosses her arms. “Then where do _you_ want to start?”

“1941,” Quinn answers just as defensively. “It’s when Billie started getting involved in drugs; it’s when she married Jimmy Monroe who _got_ her the drugs. It’s when everything started unraveling.”

“No, that’s when she sets up everything that’s going to unravel later. Do you know what happens in the time between 1941 and 1946?”

Quinn actually stops formulating her argument and thinks, scrolling through all of Santana’s emails in her mind. “No,” she admits.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Rachel says emphatically. “Nothing at all important happens until Billie gets busted for drugs and arrested.”

“So what? I’m pretty that’s the whole point of writing this with me instead of by yourself—so I can help you tell a story.”

Rachel throws up her hands in frustration. “There’s a difference between telling a story and completely fabricating one. And while the latter is fine for pure fiction, this is fictionalized history—we can’t just make something up when our story revolves around someone’s life.”

“Yes we can. Haven’t you seen some of the swill that Hollywood puts out these days?”

Rachel gives her a positively scathing look. “This is theater, Quinn. How dare you compare it to Hollywood?”

Quinn pauses, cocking her head. “Okay, sometimes I still can’t tell if you’re actually being serious or just really dramatic.”

“Quinn, this is the single most important project I’ve undertaken in years, maybe ever! I can’t screw this up.”

“You mean you won’t let me screw it up for you.”

“Not in quite—”

“And me screwing it up would involve doing things in any other way but the one you’ve already envisioned, am I a little bit close?”

Rachel begins pacing around the room. “Let me pose a scenario for you, Quinn. There are two plays about the same person. The first one covers as much of that person’s life as it can, only it doesn’t really touch on their character. It goes by so quickly that you don’t get a sense for who that person was. Now the second one, the second one only focuses on a snippet of the person’s life—maybe six months or a year or two. It doesn’t tell the complete story of all of the events, but it hits the thoughts, the emotions—what it feels like to be that person. If you could only see one of those musicals, which would it be?”

Quinn’s silence is all the answer either one of them needs.

“I know you’re a storyteller, Quinn,” Rachel continues. “I know you like to fill in the blanks with answers and theories. But theater isn’t really like that. Theater…theater dazzles your eyes with dance and your ears with music, and you get so caught up in the sights and songs that you forget for a little while about the story. You forget about the whats and just focus on the whos and whys. But later that night, when you’re driving home and humming the songs to yourself, you think about the characters and how complex their lives really were. You think about how one man stealing a loaf of bread impacts so many things and people. You think about how one lying, slimy traveling salesman can change a whole town, and how that town can change him in return. The answers and theories, they come later in theater. Theater is all about focusing on feelings right as you’re feeling them, and sometimes you’re even surprised by them.”

“You’re talking about scrapping fifty pages of the script, Rachel,” Quinn pleads. “We’d have to start completely over.”

“I know.”

“I mean, _completely_ over. Stage directions and everything.”

At least Rachel has the decency to look bashful. “I know.”

Quinn droops her head and heaves a sigh. “I’ll start brainstorming.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Rachel squeals, launching herself at Quinn and squeezing for all she’s worth.

“You better believe I’ll remember this, Berry,” Quinn says, more-than-a-little-playfully shoving Rachel off of her. “You’re going to owe me one day.”

(She doesn’t really mean it).

(Maybe that’s why Rachel just rolls her eyes and smiles as she walks out the door).

/

Sunday nights are Quinn’s favorites because neither she nor Noah work and she can actually get to bed at a normal time. She can curl up with Noah at ten thirty and smile when he passes out milliseconds later.

But Rachel must have infected the air or something, because not even the promise of warm, Sunday night-Noah arms can get Quinn to bed on time. Beth needs water. The toilet clogs. She drops her laptop behind the couch.

And then her phone rings.

Quinn is halfway to declining it when she sees that it’s Brittany. Brittany wouldn’t be mad at her if she just let it go, but who knows when Brittany would be able to call back if she did. So she sends out a quick wish, that she’ll get the calm Brittany instead of the talkative Brittany, and presses ‘Answer.’

“Hey, Britt.”

“Quinn, hi!” Brittany chirps.

Quinn can’t help smiling. Even over the phone, Brittany’s enthusiasm is infectious. “Are you done with your concert already?”

“Yeah, well, it’s 11:45 for me and we had an earlier show.”

“Where are you tonight?”

“Um, Pittsburgh? Philly? I forget which one.”

Quinn frowns. “Weren’t you just in Memphis the other night?”

“Yeah, this tour schedule makes _no_ sense. I wish they’d let Rachel plan it—everything would go from right to left and it would probably be coordinated with pretty colors. Like, we’re ending in Chicago around New Year’s but the night before that we’re in Santa Fe or something.”

“You’re ending the tour in Chicago?” It’s all that Quinn heard, really. She’s either too tired or too scatterbrained to pay attention to anything else.

“Yeah, isn’t that perfect? And I could probably get a couple of tickets. Henrik likes me most of the time, and he’s totally in charge of that stuff even if Nancy wants to pretend she is. Henrik is, like, the boss of everyone—except for Lady Gaga, who’s totally cool. Anyway, it’s even more awesome because there’s, like, a three-week break after that. So I could visit for a little bit! By the way, Beth sounded super cute on that message. I saved it right away.”

“Yeah, she’s precious,” Quinn says distractedly. “Listen, I have a favor to ask of you, but first let me ask this: you’re doing some shows in Ohio, right?”

“I think so,” Brittany confirms.

“How much would it suck if Santana didn’t go to any of them?”

Brittany hesitates. “A lot,” she finally mumbles. “I thought she was finally getting used to this…”

“No, she is,” Quinn placates immediately. Sometimes reassurances are lies. “It’s just, well, I think she would be really bummed if she only got you for just a night or two. So, what if you got some tickets for the Chicago show, and then you guys could spend all that time together?”

“I think I can do that,” Brittany answers. She’s gone quiet, like Quinn knows she gets when she’s thinking or surprised. This time might be a little bit of both.

“Yeah? Hey.” Quinn changes tack, an even sneakier plan formulating in her mind. “Can you do me one better—get some VIP passes for us or something? I know Rachel and Santana would flip out if they got to go backstage. I’ll pay whatever for those.”

“Well—”

“Call it my Christmas present to you guys. You know, for the next twelve years.”

Brittany chuckles lightly. “You don’t need to pay anything, Quinn. Just feed me every night I’m in Chicago and we’ll be good.”

“I can do that.”

“Well then I can probably get you some passes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Santana says I’m magic sometimes.”

“Yeah, I bet she does,” Quinn mumbles.

“Oh, not like that. I mean, _totally_ like that. But also sometimes I smile and I just know she’ll do whatever I ask. I think it works on Henrik, too.”

“It works on pretty much everyone, Britt,” Quinn laughs.

“Really?”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure Beth picked it up from you. That child is going to be so spoiled.”

“No, she's a great kid.” There’s rustling in the background, yelling that gets too close to the phone. “Hey, listen, they just busted open some champagne—can we talk later?”

“Yeah, of course. Go party with rock stars.”

“Cool.” Brittany hesitates. “Um, Santana, is she…? I mean, we don’t talk as much as I wanted to and sometimes she seems so sad and I just…”

“I’ve got an eye on her, Britt, don’t worry. And you know her mother’s watching her like a hawk.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Brittany takes a deep breath and comes back three times as composed. “Okay, well great. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Definitely. Oh, and Britt?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t tell Santana.”

Brittany chuckles and Santana can almost see that glint in her eye, the one she gets when she’s being tricky. Quinn imagines it’s the same glint that she’d find in a leprechaun’s gaze.

“Oh, I won’t. I love surprises.”

/

It’s past eleven by the time Quinn finally gets to bed. With one last peek into Beth’s bedroom, she plods into the master bedroom and has to really convince herself that her nighttime ritual is worth it. She’d love to just fall on the bed and pass out.

Noah puts down his iPad; Quinn can hear the yells of Angry Birds. “Working late?”

“Not really. Brittany called.”

“Is she okay?”

Quinn props the bathroom door open and raises her voice against the running faucet. “Yeah, she’s fine. Just helping me plan a surprise for Santana.”

“Ooh, like a sexy surprise?”

Quinn shuts off the water and makes sure Noah can see her glare at him through the mirror. “No, you ass. Just a normal surprise. They miss each other.”

She dries her face, wipes her mouth one last time before climbing into bed next to him.

“If your band had taken off, would you still be here?”

Noah lifts up his arm for her to rest and turns off the light. “Of course.”

“What if we didn’t have Beth?”

His reply is even more forceful, even more immediate. “You bet your ass I would.”

That’s what Quinn thinks about as she listens to Noah drift off to sleep. What it says about love, the inclination to stay or go. There isn’t always one right answer. Sometimes it’s best to stay, and others, going is what saves you, what makes you better. She doesn’t really know what it says about her relationship if she doesn’t even get the opportunity to find out. Quinn wonders what Billie Holiday would do—if it really came down to it, who would she stay for? Who would she let herself leave?

It’s probably for the best that they’re starting from scratch because Quinn spends a good ten minutes wondering and she still can’t come up with an answer.


	9. paradise

**_To:_ ** _Quinn [qfabray@gmail.com]  
 **From:** Santana [bitchexpress@gmail.com]_

_**Subject:** Re: Rachel is an insufferable diva_

_Q Fab—_

_All your new stuff sucks. You’re stuck with this Carnegie opening—and it **is** a good idea, as much as I hate to fluff up Rachel’s ego. You had Billie before, Q. Now you’ve got either Fabray levels of cynicism, which she isn’t, or Berry levels of sentimentality, which she **definitely**_ _isn’t. Think of the most sentimental old person you can, okay? Actually, think of a whole nursing home full of them. They still aren’t as sentimental as Rachel Berry, and they’re a thousand times too sentimental for Billie. Look, you’ve read her autobiography. She likes memories, but she doesn’t dwell on them. She’s plagued by her past but she isn’t stifled by it. Find the subtle difference and you’ve got Billie._

_And tell your loser boyfriend to stop emailing me lesbian porn sites. It’s not helping and he’s got shitty taste._

_Love,_

_Santana_

Quinn shakes her head at the email, mostly laughing. Her cheek slumps to the heel of her hand. She’d feel better about the play except for Santana’s email didn’t really help, which means she’s still stuck. And because she’s still stuck, that means she’s not going to mention Santana’s request to Noah. If she can’t write herself out of this mess, they’re both going to suffer for it.

It’s weird being a college graduate, Quinn decides. Mondays are the same as Tuesdays because she doesn’t have Romantic Literature or Social Linguistics to differentiate them. She’s got time to take different shifts at the hotel now, which she doesn’t always do because Sky would miss her too much and then she might actually have to interact with Mandy, the nuisance of all who inhabit the hotel, even the customers.

But sometimes she does take a morning shift or a weekend shift, just so she can pick Beth up from school or camp or wherever she is during the day. Quinn jumped on it the first chance she got, on a Wednesday two weeks after she graduated. It was Beth’s last day of first grade and Quinn was almost as nervous as she felt on the first day. But that first day of school, she was nervous for Beth. This last day she was nervous for herself. Nervous that the teacher wouldn’t like her or would judge her for being really young. Noah, he’s always had a face that makes him look anywhere between his real age and mid-30s. But Quinn, she’s five feet, six inches of a nervous high school girl. Noah looks like he could have a six-year-old daughter. Quinn looks like Beth’s sister. Anyone else would take that as a compliment, but it made Quinn fiddle with her fingers. She was worried that Beth’s teacher would be someone just a few years older than her. First grade teachers are always those really peppy cheerleaders that Quinn used to be, and she knows how much disdain is hidden within that misleadingly bright smile.

But she needn’t have worried because Miss Hazel was just a few years shy of retirement, a wise woman in a slight frame with a firm handshake and enough crinkles around her mouth to tell Quinn that she knows how to laugh with gusto. Miss Hazel watched Beth run to Quinn with a smile on her face. She didn’t say anything about their run-down car or the Columbia keychain that dangled when she locked it. She just said it was glad to finally meet Quinn— _Beth spends so much time talking about you, it’s nice to finally put a face to the name._

(“I hope I’ve lived up to the stories,” Quinn had said, and Miss Hazel just winked).

Now that school is over, Quinn sleeps in and drops Beth off at camp three days a week. The other two she spends with various friends from school, taking play-dates at the park or a rare trip to the movies. The camp counselors know Quinn very well. She makes a point to be the one Beth runs to at least once a week.

But today is Noah’s day, and so Quinn is sitting at the front desk of her hotel making up stories about the patrons in the lobby. Sky, her partner in crime, is far more cynical about people than she is, which is saying something.

“Man with the neck bandage,” Sky says, nodding her head to a well-built businessman taking a seat on one of the armchairs.

“International spy on the lam,” Quinn offers.

“Oh, come on. That’s too easy.”

Quinn cocks her head, thinking. “He’s on a health kick, trying to win back the girl who broke his heart. He lost fifty pounds and removed the neck-mole that she always hated.”

“Nice,” Sky laughs. “Will she take him back, in the end?”

“She won’t recognize him at first so he’ll have to try extra hard to get her attention. It will be a few weeks before they even have a conversation.”

“Yeah, but do they get together?”

“Who knows?” Quinn shrugs. “You can change all you want and you still might not get the girl. Life is backwards.”

Sky rolls her eyes. “Okay well, while you ride out that existential crisis, I’m gonna go make the rounds.”

She walks away with an uncharacteristically flamboyant flounce. Quinn can only laugh; Sky is normally never one for flouncing. From the outside, you’d think she was the biggest hippie on the planet—unruly brown hair, wide blue eyes, and a horrible name. Her parents _were_ hippies, or Deadheads or something, because they preferred communal living, free-trade markets, composting, and naming their children awful things like Sky Magnolia and Coyote Freedom. (Quinn is pretty sure that one’s a brother, but sometimes she can’t tell.)

But Sky hates anything to do with free love. She’d fit right in with French New Wave filmmakers, dangling a pretentious Parisian cigarette from her mouth and living in lingering jump cuts. She’s Quinn’s guilty pleasure friend, because sometimes she just wants to be an elitist bastard.

Santana gives her shit for it all the time, but Chicago has really brought out the hipster in her.

It’s a liberation from years of spandex and repression.

* * *

 

It’s a slow day at the hotel and Quinn makes it home in time for dinner. Beth is having her first sleepover at a friend’s house. To keep Noah from going crazy with worry, Quinn organized a date night of sorts. Nothing fancy—because going somewhere unfamiliar, like that new sushi place she’s been _dying_ to try, would make him wig even more—but just enough to keep him distracted. Chinese takeout, a little bit of Wii bowling, and reading a chapter or two from a horrendous advance copy of a book he brought home from work.

(It’s funny that Noah is the one who’s worried. Quinn fully expected she’d be freaking out the first time Beth went for a sleepover, if the first day of school was anything to go by. But she’s seen a bit of herself in Beth, a bit that Noah never saw. He missed out on the seven-year-old Lucy who was composed in the presence of adults, yearning to impress everyone she met. She wanted to be every parent’s favorite friend.

Quinn is pretty sure Beth already is that person. She isn’t worried.)

It’s silent in their apartment when Quinn gets home, which is odd. She was sure Noah would be blasting music (like he does when he gets stressed) or killing things in one of his testosterone-inducing video games (like he does when he gets anxious). But he is doing neither of these things, so Quinn keeps up the silence. A healthy dose of quiet never hurt anybody, she thinks.

No sooner has this crossed her mind than she finds the one person quiet can hurt. Noah is in their bedroom fidgeting terribly. Quinn watches as he paces, sits down on their bed and taps his leg, drums his fingers against their dresser. It’s adorable in the lamest way.

“You know,” Quinn says from the doorway, “it’s wearing me out just to look at you.”

Noah turns sharply at the sound of her voice. “I’m going insane, Quinn. You gotta do something to make me forget.”

Quinn laughs and shakes her head. “Mongolian beef?” she asks as she takes out her phone.

Noah runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck Mongolian beef; I need, like, six thousand pounds of eggrolls.”

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s one of those nights, is it?”

“And maybe some crab rangoon?” He gives her his most winning smile.

“You’re gonna get fat.” She walks over to him and deposits her phone in his hand. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute,” Quinn says, pinching his cheek. “You order; I’m gonna take a shower.”

“I could join you,” Noah says, the patented Puckerman smirk all too evident.

Quinn smirks back as she heads to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes. “Later, after I’ve kicked your ass at virtual bowling. You know how much I love to work you up.”

She smiles from behind the closed bathroom door as she listens to him order dinner.

It’s quite possibly the most frustrated she’s ever heard him.

/

“Whose house is she at tonight?”

“Sophia’s, I already told you.”

“I forgot. Damn, I split.”

“That’s what you get for being annoying. My turn!”

Quinn grabs her controller, and with a flick of her wrist she’s bowled another strike. She can only smirk at Noah’s frustrated expression.

“I don’t understand,” he laments. “You’re the worst bowler whenever we go out to the alley.”

“One of these days, you’ll listen to me when I tell you that this is nothing like real bowling. It’s a video game, Noah. You just have to know how to beat it.”

Noah scoffs. “You’re full of crap. You don’t even play video games.”

“And yet, I just kicked your ass. Like I always do.”

“I’ll beat you someday.”

“Sure you will, honey.” Quinn pats him patronizingly on the chest as she walks to the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

“I sure fuckin’ do, yeah.”

Noah follows her into the kitchen, even though Quinn had every intention of bringing the beer out to him. She pops the cap and slides it over to him, pouring herself a glass of white wine as he takes a sip.

He leans against the counter, resting his cheek on his fist. “When are you gonna marry me?”

Quinn almost spits out her wine. “What?”

“We have a kid. We live together. We’ve been bickering like an old married couple since we were fifteen. I’m constantly correcting Beth’s teachers and camp counselors when they call you my wife. Why don’t we just get hitched?”

Quinn sighs. “Noah…”

“No, look. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. I know you’re not all about the frilly dresses anymore and we’re both busy. We could just pop down to city hall, sign a few papers, and boom. We’re done.”

“I don’t want to do that,” she mutters

Noah sets his jaw and slides his beer out of the way. “Ever?”

“No, not ever,” she reassures. “I mean, I want to marry you; I do. I don’t mean not ever, like, never. I just don’t want to get married at city hall. I want it to mean something.”

“And it’ll only mean something if it’s a big deal?”

“No!” Quinn exhales a slow breath, takes a moment to compose herself. “I’m not explaining myself very well.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Quinn sighs and fiddles with her wine glass, trailing her fingers around the rim—slowly, but not smooth enough to make it sing. It just sounds like muted wetness, like the idea of sound instead of the real thing.

“I just want to make sure the timing’s right,” she starts. “I know we’ve been together for a long time; I know we’re practically married anyway. But I don’t want to just get married after work one day. I _do_ want it to be a big deal. We kind of missed out on the other big deal—I mean, Beth just happened, and I want…I want to get married on my own terms, that’s all.”

It’s a funny thing, marriage. It still means a lot to her even when it probably shouldn’t. Her parents’ marriage didn’t last. Sue married herself. God knows Quinn doesn’t trust that Mr. Schue won’t screw up his. It would be so easy to give up the whole thing altogether. She’s had enough experience to know that marriage isn’t the idyllic fantasy it’s cracked up to be.

That’s the problem with being Quinn. She never believed in fairies, but she told herself fairy tales anyway.

(The bit of Lucy that’s still lurking somewhere deep down wants to contradict that.

She still believes in a hell of a lot of things that Quinn left behind).

But right next to Lucy is the bit of Quinn that wanted the perfect future—picket fences, husband, kids, the whole shebang—and Noah is more than enough to give it to her. He loves her and he’s devoted to Beth. And she feels the same way about him. She believes in love and she believes in marriage, even though she knows that one isn’t enough to sustain the other.

She just believes in patience more, and Quinn isn’t done waiting yet.

Quinn looks up from her wine glass to find Noah just looking at her. He’s waiting, too.

“I do want to marry you, Noah. I want to marry you and buy a house and have another kid or two. I just…I need a little more time.”

He nods his head. “Okay.”

“If you want, you can tell all those teachers and camp counselors that I’m your fiancée.”

Noah smiles, finishing off the last of his beer. “No, I don’t think so. I want it to be a big deal, too.”

She might still be waiting, but at least Noah is worth it.

“Do you want another beer?”

Noah tosses the empty one into the recycling bin. “Nah, I’m up for some more bowling. I feel good about this round. You’re totally going down.”

Quinn smiles. “Well, I’m not really up for bowling, but I could still go down.” She polishes off her wine. “I don’t mean to be crude, but you seem to enjoy it.”

It takes a second to sink in before Noah gets it. She’s halfway to sauntering toward the bedroom when he finds her arm and pulls her back.

“You know,” he murmurs, brushing a hair from her face, “I like you just as much when you’re prissy and shit, too.” He kisses the laugh right out of her, all strong tongue and warm hands and the safest lips she’s ever felt. “Not that I’m rejecting your offer or anything.”

“Oh, good,” she mumbles against his mouth. “I thought you’d changed.”

“When it comes to sex? Never.”

Quinn rolls her eyes at his cocky smirk. “God, you’re lucky I love you.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, and then he carries her into the bedroom.

She’s pretty lucky he loves her, too. He spends the rest of the night proving why.

* * *

 

“What are you having problems with, Quinn?”

Quinn hangs her head and fights the urge to snap her pencil. “That’s a very vague question, Rachel.”

“Well, I have to start vague. We can get specific when you tell me what’s bothering you about this beginning.”

“Shouldn’t you be working on the soundtrack?” she grumbles.

“This is a symbiotic process, Quinn. I find it very difficult to get anything done when you’re so stuck. I can’t pick out songs if I don’t have a good grasp of the tone of the script.”

“Go read her book; that will give you a perfect tone.”

“If it were as easy as reading the book, you wouldn’t be stuck right now.”

“You’re not picking up on my hints for you to go away.”

“Oh no, I’m picking up on them. I’m just not leaving.” Rachel sits down next to Quinn at the kitchen table and daintily brushes away crumbs from her blueberry muffin. “Now. Let’s work through this logically.”

Quinn slumps her head to the table. “Oh my god, _go away_.”

(She doesn’t.)

/

They get it after about two excruciating hours of talking. Rachel keeps going on and on about how they need to really focus on the relationships, how the core of Billie Holiday is a sad sense of camaraderie.

“Remember how we felt when we lost Nationals?” Rachel asks. “That’s how Billie Holiday is. Go back to that day and remember how it felt.”

“Billie Holiday is more than that, I think,” Quinn deflects. “Anyway, I couldn’t recreate that even if I wanted to. It wouldn’t be the same. You can’t exactly solve current problems by reliving your past failures.”

Quinn lifts her head when she realizes Rachel isn’t saying anything.

They both kind of just look at each other for a while.

“I’ll get my computer,” Quinn finally says, and she practically runs back to her bedroom.

* * *

 

> **SCENE ONE**
> 
> _[Carnegie Hall, 1948. BILLIE is in her dressing room, getting worked on by her MAKEUP ARTIST. She is fidgeting in her chair, clearly anxious.]_  
> 
> MAKEUP ARTIST 
> 
> Been a while since you were on stage, huh? 
> 
> BILLIE
> 
> _(noncommittal)_
> 
> Hmm. 
> 
> MAKEUP ARTIST 
> 
> They’re all gonna love you. 
> 
> BILLIE 
> 
> I sure hope so. 
> 
> MAKEUP ARTIST 
> 
> Don’t fret, honey. It’ll be just like old times. 
> 
> BILLIE
> 
> _(scoffs)_
> 
> Just like old times. Ain’t that the problem.

 (When Rachel smiles, Quinn knows she’s onto something).

/

“What? No, it’s my day to be with Beth until I have to work. We can talk more tomorrow. God knows I’ll get some quality writing done at the hotel later; nothing exciting ever happens. Speaking of which, aren’t you supposed to be at work right now?” A beat. “I swear, I don’t know how you supported yourself in college, Rachel Berry. You are the worst employee. I’m hanging up now.”

Quinn hangs up, even though Rachel is still talking, and shakes her head, laughing. If there was ever anyone who was made to never have a job in the food service industry, it was Rachel Berry. And yet there she is, bussing tables and getting yelled at by customers who are incensed by her neuroses. Quinn has been waited upon by Rachel. The frustrated people are mostly justified.

But Rachel Berry isn’t someone who can sit at home and do nothing and she has weird rules about working on the musical (and everything else), so Zia’s it is. Between that and the hotel, they’ve got enough customer service horror stories to make for some very interesting after-dinner conversation.

Sometimes it makes Quinn think--at what point did she start planning out which conversations she could have at which times? It used to be that she would censor herself based on the people by whom she was surrounded, but Beth is around pretty much all the time now. Quinn used to scoff at her mom whenever she would shoo her and Frannie away because she wanted to have an “adult” conversation with their father. Now Quinn doesn’t think it’s all that crazy. Sometimes she even does it to Beth.

But right now, Quinn just watches Beth play in the sand. She smiles—Beth can run around and be a boisterous six-year-old with her friends, but she’s just as content to make dream castles and kingdoms as big as the sandbox will reach. It’s a nice balance.

Then again, balance was made to be shifted and Quinn hasn’t played in the sand in at least two weeks.

“Whatcha making, monkey?” Quinn asks as she sits down, smoothing her cardigan so it won’t get smashed.

“A stage,” Beth says simply.

“A stage? Is someone putting on a show?”

“Yeah, you and Rachel,” Beth answers. “The show about the sad lady.”

Quinn laughs. “You know, Rachel and I aren’t going to be in the show.”

Beth cocks her head. “Oh. Who will be?”

“We don’t know yet,” Quinn shrugs. “We have to have auditions first.”

“Auditions?”

“Yeah. It’s where people try out so they can play the part of the sad lady. A lot of guys and girls will be singing and acting for us, and it’s our job to pick the best ones for the play.”                                                                                                                                                        

Beth perks up and almost smashes her carefully constructed stage. “Can I help?”

“Sure.”

“Right now?”

“Right now?” Quinn echoes. “Okay, hold on. Stay right there.” She gets up and jogs over to where she left her bag by the bench. Noah has told her more than once to bring her bag wherever she goes, but it’s a neighborhood park. Quinn will start listening when it gets stolen.

(Two years and she hasn’t had to listen yet).

Beth is waiting patiently when she gets back, an eager and questioning look on her face. Quinn just smiles back and pulls out a few figurines. She likes to keep a couple with her all the time because sometimes there are just boys at the park, and there’s only so much you can do with sand for three hours.

She spreads them all out for Beth, careful not to ruin anything she’s made. “Okay, we need two boys and a girl.”

“What are their names?”

“Well,” Quinn explains, “Billie is the girl and she’s a really good singer. But she’s sort of sad, like you said. And then Jimmy is her husband. I think he loves her but he’s mean most of the time. And then there’s Lester. He’s been Billie’s best friend for a really long time, but I’m pretty sure he had a secret crush on her.”

Beth looks at the rag-tag bunch—the Jungle Barbie action figure that came in a Happy Meal, the tiny Oscar Wilde that Quinn carries around because otherwise it won’t get played with, the Katniss figurine Beth begged for, and the John Smith and G.I. Joe figurines, donated from Quinn and Noah’s collections, respectively. She pauses a moment before picking up the last three and putting them on the stage. She puts Katniss confidently in the front, digging her feet into the sand so she can stand on her own. She lays John Smith down behind Katniss and folds G.I. Joe’s legs down, sitting him off to the right.

“Who’s who?” Quinn asks.

Beth rolls her eyes. “Duh, Mom. That’s Billie.” She points to Katniss.

“Ah, right,” Quinn says, hiding a smile in her hand. “And the other two?”

“This one’s Jimmy”—she points to the G.I. Joe—“and the other one is Lester. What kind of a name is Lester?”

“An old one. Billie would have turned 100 last year. Lester was even older.”

Beth’s eyes widen. “Wow.”

“Yeah. So what are they all doing?”

Beth twists Billie as if to show her dancing, but it dislodges the stage so she stops. “Billie is singing and there’s a giant crowd and they’re all quiet because she’s really good. And Lester, he’s in the back so Billie can hear him when he claps because nobody else is making any noise so she doesn’t know that they like her. And Jimmy is just watching.”

“How come Jimmy is sitting down?”

“He doesn’t get to stand up.”

“Why not?”

“Because. His outsides should match his insides and mean people are always small on the inside.” She stills the toys in her hands and looks up at Quinn. “Right?”

Quinn has to hesitate before nodding.

Beth is one hell of a kid.

/

**_To:_ ** _Quinn [qfabray@gmail.com]_  
 _ **From:** Santana [bitchexpress@gmail.com]_

_**Subject:** (none)  
_

_Bingo, Q._

_Look at that. A little Lopez love and you’ve found your way. I expect 15% of the profits once this thing takes off, and I want it in writing now before Rachel can object._


	10. let the rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the plans for this story a little bit because even I was getting impatient with myself. Anyway, I'm definitely making up a lot of shit in this chapter because I know nothing of creating musicals and I only watched the first few episodes of Smash. So make of that what you will. Also, happy belated Valentine's Day; have some lovely Glee ladies.

Rachel makes everything really real when September hits. Quinn feels it, the shift in the air, like someone’s dropped a bucket of water onto the wind and instead of absorbing into the ground, it just hangs there and every time the breeze picks up, she feels it. Every time she breathes out in frustration and sends a strand of hair flinging upwards, she feels it. She feels it every time she turns her head; every time she sits down a little too hard on the couch; every time she slams her notebook on a table or her desk or sometimes the floor.

Quinn chalks it up to back-to-school jitters at first. September marks the first time in seventeen years that she hasn’t been in a classroom. It was an odd feeling to wake up and go to her hotel instead of grade school or high school or college. Rachel makes it even worse, emailing teachers and Broadway contacts who were a million times more likely to respond to emails now that they had hordes of them flooding in.

Even then, Quinn could have avoided the feeling indefinitely. She could have avoided the tension because it wasn’t her tension. Rachel had teachers and agents and logistics to work out. Quinn just had a trusty desk and a script.

But Rachel is Rachel and her tension spills over, as it was bound to do eventually, and on a slow day that smells of a looming chill, she slinks her way into Quinn’s bedroom, hands folded in front of her like they hold a lot of uncomfortable truths.

“Are you busy?” she asks, shifting around the door.

Quinn sets her pen down and swivels to face her. “No, I’m not really getting anywhere. What’s up?”

“Well…” Rachel sighs.

“Uh oh. That’s loaded.”

Rachel smooths her skirt and sits on Quinn’s bed, perching her hands on her knees. “I wanted to talk to you about the play and how you feel about it.”

“Okay?”

“How _do_ you feel about it?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Rach, I’m not going to back out on this. This is a huge, mostly enjoyable project.”

“Okay.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Project, like, this could jump-start your career; or project, like, something fun you do until the next big thing comes along?”

“Are you actually doubting how serious I am about this?”

“No, no,” Rachel clarifies. “Just making sure, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Because, well, I’ve been talking to a lot of my professors. And while they stress the importance of solidifying a script and the score, this is also a visual performance.”

“Right, that’s kind of the point of musical _theater_ , Rach.”

“So we need people. Actors, I mean,” she amends. “All of my professors—and, of course, I’m speaking from personal experience as well—strongly suggest workshopping what we’ve got. Come up with a few dance numbers, prepare monologues and really flesh out our song selections. We need to think about holding auditions, Quinn.”

“Oh.” Quinn cocks her head, fiddles with the pen in her hand. “But…we’re not ready,” she objects feebly.

(It isn’t that she never thought this would be an actual musical. It’s just safer as an idea. Quinn trusts herself with these characters, and she trusts Rachel with their feelings. Casting them means she has to learn how to trust new people, and it isn’t the same as trusting someone to be her friend or her teammate. Trusting someone with her writing is worse than trusting someone with her love. People already feel entitled to her love, whether they should or not, and Quinn has prepared defenses for that.

When it comes to writing, she is completely defenseless.)

“I’m not saying we’ll audition people tomorrow,” Rachel continues, “but I don’t think it’s out of the question to start by the new year.”

“January?” Quinn blurts. “Rachel, that’s only four months from now. That’s nothing.”

“We’ve been working on this for four months already, Quinn.”

“Really?” she says before she can help herself. “I mean”—she resets her scowl—“yeah, and look where four months has gotten us. Three quarters of an act.”

“And by that logic we’ll have almost an entire play done in another four months, and absolutely nothing to show for it, Quinn. The script is _wonderful_ so far but it doesn’t mean anything if that’s all it is.” The bed creaks as Rachel shifts on it. Quinn has never hated the flawed wood frame more. “I know you’re having fun with this and taking it so seriously, Quinn, but can we make it real? Please?”

Quinn taps her pen against her lips, pretending to consider the question. (She’s thinking about it, sure, but there’s no consideration. Just nerves.)

“Okay,” she finally says after a long breath. “But don’t think that just because you’re the theater major, you get final say on the cast. I think you’ll find that when it comes to characters, I have a lot of opinions.”

Rachel looks positively affronted. “But—”

“You have a million songs in your heart, Rachel Berry,” Quinn says, smiling indulgently. “And I have a million words. People are made up of words, so let me have these few.”

Rachel smiles back. “Okay.” She has that look in her eye that makes Quinn pause, the one that says _I’m so happy that you’ve acknowledged some kind of emotion and I just can’t keep that happiness to myself._

Quinn scoots her chair back as Rachel gets off the bed. “You’re not going to hug me,” she warns.

“I think I am,” Rachel counters.

“The writing process is very important and cannot be disturbed by sentimentality, Rachel.”

“Those sound like the words of a person who needs a hug.”

“They aren’t; they _so_ aren’t. Stop walking towards me.”

(She doesn’t.)

/

“We need to have “God Bless the Child” in there _somewhere_ , Quinn.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense with the rest of the story!” Quinn ruffles her pile of papers for emphasis. “This isn’t _Mamma Mia_ , Rachel. We’re not constructing a play around the songs. We already have a plot—that took you ages to approve, I might add.  Why do you always feel the need to change things?”

“I just want this to be perfect,” Rachel mumbles.

Quinn dismisses her with a wave of her hand. “We can worry about perfection when we have the whole thing written. Save the song quibbles for later.”

“So you want me to worry about the soundtrack later, but you still get to veto this song right now?”

Quinn smiles triumphantly. “Yes.”

It isn’t Rachel’s style to roll her eyes, but she does anyway. “Fine.” She scoots closer to Quinn, her chair squeaking against the kitchen tile. Rachel fans out the half-full, rife-with-red-pen pages, completely dismantling Quinn’s organizational system. “Which scene are you revising?”

“The one where Billie goes batshit on the establishment.” She shrugs at Rachel’s exasperated expression. “Noah’s words, not mine.”

“Clearly,” Rachel quips. “Okay, let’s see what you have.”

 

> PRODUCER
> 
> One more take, Ms. Holiday.
> 
> BILLIE
> 
> Honey, we’ve been at this all day. It ain’t gonna sound how you want it to because I sing it different every time.
> 
> PRODUCER
> 
> Just one more take, please.
> 
> BILLIE
> 
> I’ll sing. I never mind singing. But it’s not gonna stop you asking for ‘one more take’.

“What’s this?” Rachel asks, pointing to a note in the margins. _S’s quote_? it reads, with an arrow pointing to the line at which Rachel stopped, letters bleeding into each other because Quinn’s hand gets sloppy when she gets excited. “Whose quote?”

“Oh, Santana’s,” Quinn replies absently, scrolling through her inbox to find the right email. “She found this quote of Billie’s that she thought fit right there. I just didn’t know if I should put it in; I don’t want to rely too much on her words. That’s lazy.”

Rachel just stares at her. “Well, what’s the quote?” she finally asks.

“Um, lemme see…ah! Here we go: ‘No two people on earth are alike, and it’s got to be that way in music or it isn’t music.’”

“Santana sent you that?”

“More like she reminded me of it. It’s from Billie’s book; I probably have it highlighted somewhere myself but I haven’t really been looking. Like I said, I don’t want to use too much of her stuff in here. There’s a difference between authenticity and outright copying.”

“Yeah, I know.” Rachel taps the page. “Santana found the perfect quote to express that.” This time it’s Quinn’s turn to silently stare. “ _How_ did she find the perfect quote, Quinn?”

“What? I’ve been sending her my stuff,” Quinn shrugs. “Sometimes I need a second opinion that comes in five hundred words or less.”

“Are you saying that I talk too much?” Rachel huffs.

“I’m saying that no one enjoys the sound of Rachel Berry’s voice quite like Rachel Berry.”

“I know at least three people back in New York who would fight you on that.”

“Alright,” Quinn giggles.

“But back to the matter at hand—how much input has Santana had on the script?”

“Not really that much,” Quinn says, trying to pass it off as nonchalant. “She isn’t writing anything. She just makes sure that I’m still feeling Billie when I get stuck. She’s the Angela to my Bones.”

Rachel gives her a blank look.

“Okay, come _on_ , Rachel, you have to start watching some real TV. Besides, you’d like Temperance Brennan; she’s almost as exact as you are.”

“Can you really have degrees of exactitude, though?” Rachel muses. “I mean, either you’re exact or you’re not.”

“Like being pregnant,” Quinn offers.

“Exactly,” Rachel replies. Then she glares.

(It’s not like Quinn can help herself. Rachel makes it too easy.)

“How exactly?”

Rachel cocks her head. “Do you mean that as in, how many degrees of exactitude; or are you saying, ‘How, exactly?’”

“This is why you don’t start word-debates with an English major,” Quinn teases.

“You just wait until we get to the songs. I’ll have some great zingers for you then, Quinn Fabray.”

“I’m sure you will, Rach.”

“So you’re putting that line in, right?”

Quinn rests her head on her fist. “You really think I should?”

Rachel nods eagerly. “I think what you have is great, though incomplete. Plus it’s a good setup for the musical number.”

“And we’ve decided that one is…?”

“I’m still working on it,” Rachel mumbles, averting her eyes. “Billie’s songs are predominantly about men; it’s hard to find one that adequately expresses her trouble with the recording industry.”

“That’s because you’re not looking deep enough into the lyrics. I’m not saying you’re gonna find it in ‘Summertime,’ but she does have more oblique songs.”

“Yes, well, she also has a lot of them. Wading through her entire repertoire is a daunting task, not to mention finding songs that could withstand a little updating.”

Quinn scrunches her nose. “Ew, don’t tell me you have visions of reimagining this as some kind of punk opera.” There are few times that Rachel has looked as scandalized as she does now. If Quinn had any kind of poker face, she’d let the joke play through. But she doesn’t, so she breaks down and laughs. “Oh god, you should see your face. I’m _kidding_ , Rachel,” she clarifies. “I know you have more sense than that.”

Rachel takes a moment to compose herself, failing to make Quinn believe she was in on the joke the whole time. “Very funny, Quinn. I just meant that we can’t do every song like a lazy swing. I think some of them could be upgraded to wonderful R&B ballads.”

“What are you going to do about the men’s numbers?” Quinn wonders out loud.

Rachel takes a big gulp and widens her eyes. “The what?” she finally says, her voice a monotone.

“The men’s numbers,” Quinn repeats. “You know, Jimmy and Lester? You can’t have Billie singing everything.”

Rachel threads her fingers through her hair, mumbling to herself. “Oh my god I forgot about Jimmy and Lester. It’s a musical about Billie Holiday and I’ve been so focused on Billie that I forgot about Jimmy and Lester; what am I going to do?”

“I have complete faith that you’ll figure it out, Rach. But could you figure it out somewhere else? If you want me to get this script done by your deadline, though…”

Rachel takes the hint and gets up. “I’ll be at my place then. Text if you’re coming over because I’ll have my headphones in and we don’t want a repeat of last time, do we?”

“Hey, it wasn’t _my_ neck you almost broke.”

“Yes, well, text me either way. Maybe just to make sure I haven’t fallen into a Billie Holiday-inspired pit of despair.”

“Gee, wouldn’t that be a shame,” Quinn grumbles.

“And put that line in the script!” Rachel yells as she walks away.

“You wanna write this thing?” Quinn calls back.

(She puts it in anyway).

/

Three days later there’s a message from Santana in her inbox.

It’s a forward of the email Rachel sent to Santana, asking for help with the soundtrack, and it makes Quinn laugh all the way to work.

* * *

 

 **[From: Rachel]** _When are you off today? We have a meeting for Billie._

Quinn glances surreptitiously at her phone, but it doesn’t really matter—the front desk is dead between four and seven. Sure, there are security cameras everywhere, but no one really watches them and she’s always been a bit of the manager’s darling anyway.

“Who are you texting?” Mandy asks. She pops her gum so much that Quinn is surprised she’s able to get any words out around it at all. “Your hunk of a husband?”

“He’s not my husband, Mandy,” Quinn sighs. “Just like he wasn’t the last three times you asked.”

“Well, he’s still a hunk,” she murmurs conspiratorially.

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

 _I’m off at five,_ Quinn texts back _. What kind of meeting?_ _I don’t have anything on my schedule._

“So what’d he say?”

“I’m not texting him, I’m texting my friend.”

 **[From: Rachel]** _Possible candidate for our choreographer. Informal, but be prepared. How does dinner at seven sound?_

“Oh. About what?”

_Sounds great, Rach. Make the reservations and I’ll be there._

“About a project we’re working on. We’re writing a play,” she continues, interrupting Mandy before she has time to ask the question.

“Oh, like Shakespeare?” Mandy gasps.

“No, a musical.”

“Ooh, does it—”

“Look, Mandy. Guests.” Quinn puts on her best fake smile, memories of Sue Sylvester still fresh in her mind. “I’m going to do a last walk-through and then I’m off for the night; see you tomorrow!” she chirps a little too eagerly. Mandy just pauses and nods with an equally earnest wave.

Quinn rolls her eyes at least three times as she walks through the hotel.

Beth and Noah are waiting for her when she gets home. She gives both of them a quick kiss and then hops in the shower, ready to wash away the feeling of work. She begs out of dinner for the night, telling Noah of her impromptu plans with Rachel. Beth just looks at him and says “Hamburgers, Daddy?” and Quinn knows they won’t miss her much.

She just about makes it in time. Chicago traffic isn’t as bad as New York’s, but all the idiots seem to come out right around dinner time. Still, she gets to the restaurant with a few minutes to spare and spies Rachel sitting at a table near the back.

“Still waiting on this mystery guest?” Quinn asks as she sits down.

“No, he’s here. He just went to the bathroom.”

Quinn raises her eyebrows. “How very girly of him. Should I be worried that he’s an insufferable queen?”

“That cuts deep, Quinn,” a quiet voice murmurs from behind her.

She turns around to see who it is but he’s already moved toward the table and taken the seat next to Rachel. Mike Chang looks good as a college grad—still lean and flexible, but with just enough chin stubble to make him look more mature.

“I should have known,” she smiles.

“Yeah, with Brittany touring, who else are you going to get?” he jokes back.

She swats his arm. “Stop fishing for compliments, you jerk.”

Their waitress comes by and takes their drink orders (as usual, Rachel spends twice as much time explaining as she needs to). The restaurant is a quiet Mexican place; Quinn could have gone for Italian but she doesn’t eat it much when she’s out to a meal with Rachel, given that Rachel has spaghetti for dinner more often than not. But this restaurant is nice and slow, perfect for catching up with old friends, and it’s good that Quinn gets the same carne asada no matter the restaurant because she really can’t be bothered to look at the menu right now.

“How are you doing, Mike?” she asks, sipping on water. “We didn’t really get a chance to catch up much at graduation.”

“I’m good,” he says after a moment. The worry lines in his forehead say the opposite. “But we’ll have time for that later; this is a business meeting, Miss Fabray.”

He winks, and Quinn can’t help but laugh. “Of course it is. Tell me, Mr. Chang,” she says, putting on her best haughty accent, “did my colleague tell you anything about our little endeavor?”

“No, she didn’t.” Mike shakes his head. “I think she was waiting for you.”

“Rachel Berry, turning down an opportunity to talk about Broadway? My, how you’ve grown.”

“I’m not much of a salesman,” Rachel blushes. “I thought I’d leave that to our resident wordsmith.”

“Well, with an introduction like that, how can I refuse? Let me ask you this first, Mike: how much time do you have to commit?”

Mike leans back in his chair and fiddles with his fork. “Well, I’ve got a couple of hopeful projects lined up, but nothing definite. If this idea is as good as I think it is—given the dynamic duo—I could make a lot of time for you.”

“Okay. How are you with swing?”

Mike’s eyes glint mischievously. “Is it dancing?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m your man.”

From anyone else it would be arrogance. From Mike Chang, it’s simply the truth.

“Of course you are,” Quinn smiles. “Alright, well, the short story is that Rachel and I are developing a musical based on the life of Billie Holiday, and we’re in the market for a choreographer.”

“Seriously? Like, the Broadway kind of musical?”

Quinn nods. “That’s the hope, yes.”

“What’s it called?”

“Haven’t quite figured that out yet,” Quinn squirms.

“Do you have a cast?”

“No.”

“Do you have a score?”

“No.”

“Do you have funding?”

“Ha! No.”

“What do you have?” Mike teases.

“Half a script and a lot of dreams,” Quinn teases right back.

“Well, then you’re halfway to selling me on this.” The waitress arrives with their food and Mike digs right into his burrito. He may be more suave than Noah or Finn, but he’s still a guy. “I know why you want to do this,” he points at Quinn, his mouth full of pork, “but why you, Rachel? If you’re not taking the lead role, I mean.”

“While I would relish the opportunity to play such a remarkable musical icon, I lack the nuance that oozed out of Billie’s very presence.”

Quinn leans in closer to Mike. “She’s not taking the lead,” she whispers.

“No, I can see that,” Mike whispers back, laughing. He laughs even more when Rachel swats his arm. “Sorry, please continue.”

“I always thought my calling was to be in musicals,” Rachel continues. “And I think that’s still in my future. But”—and here she dabs her lips with her napkin, stalling for time because while she’s eerily tuned to the dramatic, Rachel has never had the ear for speeches—“I think maybe I need to make my own right now. Create something that belongs to me, instead of losing myself in someone else.”

Quinn has the urge to give Rachel a very long hug. Sometimes she forgets that the biggest of dreams can come from such a little girl.

“Well,” Mike says, leaning his elbows on the table, “I’m in.”

“Seriously? Just like that?” Quinn blurts. Sure, she was getting the feeling that a yes was around the corner, but it’s a big commitment.

“Just like that. Sue me, I’m an easy guy,” he shrugs.

Rachel dives under the table, digging around in her bag. “Well, that is the perfect answer. Of course, I’ve prepared for this possibility and I’ve taken the time to draw up a brief contract.” The packet she hands Mike looks more like an instruction manual. “I trust you’ll take time to look it over before committing.”

“Oh, sure, of course. Hey, Quinn, do you have a pen?”

“I don’t—”

“I do!” Rachel interrupts.

Mike takes it from her with a smile, flips to the last page, and flourishes a signature. “And I’m done thinking about it. Hello, new team.”

“I think we need to celebrate this officially!” Rachel proposes. “What do you say, Mike—you can grab Tina and we’ll all do dinner sometime? Champagne’s on me.”

“I, uh—Tina’s actually out of town right now. At a conference,” Mike falters, clearing his throat.

“And you can barely pay your rent, let alone afford champagne,” Quinn snarks, mostly for Mike’s benefit. He throws a silent, relieved look in her direction.

“Why don’t we take this time to get the boring stuff out of the way? Talk to me about logistics and all that,” Mike says.

“What do you want to know?” Quinn replies.

“Well, it sounds like you guys—or, well, _we_ —are pretty far away from having an actual show. When are you holding auditions? How are you going to get funding? Are we talking years here?”

“Hopefully not,” Quinn grimaces. “Though that’s more Rachel’s territory; she’s got contacts in New York that I’m sure will come in handy.”

“We are hoping to start auditions in January, though,” Rachel offers.

“Four months to come up with some solid dance routines? I’ve always liked a challenge.”

The best part about Mike is that he’s always been good-natured and accepting. Noah always touted himself as a go-with-the-flow kind of guy, but only if the flow included alcohol, hot girls, debauchery, or any combination thereof. But Mike is absolutely the kind of guy to roll with the punches. His easygoing attitude is rubbing off on Quinn, which probably has more to do with the fact that he has the face of an earnest chipmunk than anything else.

“So can I read the script?” he asks.

Quinn only hesitates for a moment. “Absolutely.”

This trust thing is a lot easier when you already know the kind of person you’re trusting.

/

They part ways with promises to get together soon. Mike says that he’ll do research on Billie’s songs, get a feel for which ones lend themselves to dance numbers. There are little flecks of creativity coming out of Rachel so intensely that Quinn is pretty sure her hair is going to set on fire.

Quinn and Rachel carpool on the way home. She won’t ever say it, but Quinn can see in Rachel’s eyes that every subway in every major city disgusts her.

“Mike brings up an interesting point, you know,” Quinn says as she starts the car. “We are quite the broke playwrights.”

“I know,” Rachel sighs. “But I’ve kept in touch with a few directors back in New York and I think, once we really solidify the show, they’d be more than willing to talk us up to people with money.”

“Sure, there’s that. But we can barely afford the little costs, Rach. When we start workshopping these dance numbers, we’ll probably have to rent out a studio or something. Now, I’m not exactly rolling in dough, and I don’t mean to be harsh when I say this, but I know you had trouble making your rent last month.”

“I never thought it would be this hard to live off tips,” Rachel grumbles. “I mean, _Santana_ can do it.”

Quinn instantly feels terrible. Making Rachel sad is kind of like making Brittany sad, and making Brittany sad is like drop-kicking a whole basket of kittens.

“It’s just something to think about, I guess. Now that we’re making this an actual thing and all.”

“Who knew you could create a Broadway musical and feel like an adult at the same time, huh?”

“Probably you.”

“That’s true; I am quite the expert on musical theater.”

“If only that expertise could be applied to fine dining.”

“Quinn!”

“Hey, look. We’re home.”

/

 **_To:_ ** _Santana Lopez [bitchexpress@gmail.com]_

 **_From:_ ** _Quinn Fabray [qfabray@gmail.com]_

 **_Subject:_ ** _Guess which dance master just signed on to choreograph?_

_(Hint: it’s not your girlfriend)._

_Just thought I’d update you on life here in the Windy City. Mike’s agreed to be our choreographer. I think if Mr. Schue could see all of this, he’d be on the floor bawling. Which is probably why I’m glad he can’t! It’s crazy though, right? We said we’d get away from Lima and the Glee Club, and now Mike Chang is a great friend and I’m living across the hall from Rachel Berry._

_Speaking of Rachel, if you know any way of lifting her spirits, I’d love to hear them. She’s putting on a brave face but that restaurant is really taking it out of her. Poor girl isn’t made to be anywhere near the food industry, and she’s paying for it (or not getting paid, as the case may be). Maybe you should just come for a week or two, work your Lopez magic at a bar, and drop a load of twenties in her lap. Ha!_

_Anyway, I’ve got another section of the script for you to look at. I think I’ve got where we need to go. It’s just taking a while to get there. But I could always use your input; you’re like my very own Hispanic Billie clone._

_Hope you and Britt are doing okay. Let me know what you think._

_Love you,_

_Quinn_

/

Listening to Rachel and Mike discuss the musical numbers is on Quinn’s list of top ten funniest things she’s ever witnessed. If Rachel were having a conversation with anyone else—Quinn, Santana, Kurt, Mercedes, even Brittany—they’d be at each other’s throats. But Mike, wonderful, unflappable Mike, rolls effortlessly with every crazy change Rachel has to make. They’re in the living room and Quinn is in the kitchen, hiding under headphones that are allegedly blasting music. They don’t need to know that she stopped listening to Leonard Cohen at least an hour ago.

“The problem is, not every song can be a big swing number, Rach,” Quinn hears Mike say. “The whole thing would get stale really quickly.”

“Yes, but we can’t have Billie with an old microphone all the time either.”

“Well, not every musical number has to have dancing at all. I mean, can’t you set the mood of a song with props or lighting or something?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just there are _so many_ songs. There are probably a dozen I could find for whatever mood I wanted to convey.”

“I can definitely help you with that. I listened to a few of her songs last night, and I think I’ve found your opening number.” A few seconds later, a lively swing song blares from Rachel’s laptop. Quinn doesn’t recognize it, but that isn’t unusual. For as much as she feels like she knows Billie the Person, she’s shamefully unacquainted with Billie the Performer. If it came down to it, she could probably only sing one or two songs all the way through.

“You want this to be the opening number?” Rachel asks over the music, lowering the volume. “How is this going to transition into the Carnegie scene?”

“It isn’t,” Mike replies. “It comes after.”

“An opening number that isn’t the opening scene? You’re either misinformed or incredibly insane.”

“It’s bold, sure, but so was Billie.”

“We aren’t exactly seasoned professionals here, Mike. I don’t know if we can afford to take risks like this.”

“That’s exactly the time you’re _supposed_ to take risks, Rachel.”

Quinn smiles at Mike’s quiet conviction. It’s little moments like this one that let her see why he and Brittany worked so well together all throughout high school. Mike might not be as off-the-cuff as Brittany, but what he believes, he believes wholeheartedly. Sometimes it borders on naïveté, but he’s so damn charming that she’s willing to overlook it.

* * *

 

The months pass by in a flurry of work. September bleeds into October as Mike’s planning actually turns into an opening number. After a week, Quinn feels like punching someone any time she hears “Swing, Brother, Swing!”

They all go trick-or-treating with Beth, becoming a neighborhood favorite with their Scooby Gang costumes. Quinn makes sure to save lots of pictures for Santana—Quinn would never be the one to deny her the opportunity to ridicule Noah for wearing bell bottoms and a mullet wig. She takes lots of pictures of Beth, too, because her daughter is the cutest Scooby Doo there ever was.

By the time November rolls around, Quinn is seriously freaking out. She’s hit a wall with her writing—the first act, so historically driven, was easier to write. It had a formula: start with Carnegie, flash back to 1946 then add toxic husbands, yearning companions, a shitload of drugs, a divorce, an arrest, and you’ve got yourself a story. But the second act is all about emotions—Billie’s solitude in jail, Jimmy’s irrelevance, Lester’s disillusionment—and half of that is made up anyway. Quinn finds herself poring over encyclopedias and Billie’s book, looking for some kind of concrete event to which she can tie everything, but there isn’t one. There’s the arrest at the end of Act I, six months in prison, and then nothing until her comeback at Carnegie Hall, which Rachel has already cemented as the closing number. But it leaves Quinn to fabricate an hour and a half of intense emotions. It’s so stifling that she can barely pick up a pen.

So she’s glad when, two weeks before Thanksgiving, Rachel brings up the notion of auditions. It’s earlier than they planned and Rachel seems surprised that Quinn doesn’t object. She completely throws herself into it, actually, dropping hints at every theater company she can find. Five days later they’ve got a steady stream of hopefuls milling around Mike’s apartment, which he soundproofed the second he got enough money. It’s a perk, having dancer friends when you’re creating a musical. Quinn finds herself getting almost as excited as Rachel, which is probably more excited than she ever was during all four years at McKinley. It’s exhausting.

Even more exhausting is the actual audition process, because it becomes very clear very quickly that Billie will be harder to cast than they thought. The girls that come in, they’re talented, but they’re too sassy or too sad or too mean. The men are slightly more impressive, but still forgettable.

Four hours into the second day, Quinn starts to get restless. She’d be perfectly happy to issue a rejection as soon as it becomes clear that one is warranted, but Rachel is all about equal opportunity, and she insists on letting everyone finish.

Quinn leaves the room as Mike and Rachel argue over the latest applicant. She stays just outside the door, listening if they need her, but they probably won’t.

It takes her all of ten seconds to call Santana, because no one else is going to appreciate the torture of this situation.

“Sup, Q?”

“Oh my god,” Quinn groans, “this is the worst day of my life.”

Santana’s immediate response is to laugh. “Uh oh. What are you up to?”

“Eavesdropping on Mike and Rachel.”

“Ew, are they doing it?” Santana sneers. “Didn’t know you were into that.”

“Ugh, no! Gross. You’re an asshole.”

“A loveable asshole.”

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, auditions are a total bust. These Billies all suck.”

“Maybe you’re just being picky.”

“Oh, come on. It’s Billie Holiday. We _have_ to be picky. We can’t just pick any racially ambiguous singer off the street. Hell,” Quinn laughs, “with the luck we’re having, maybe we should just call the whole thing off and give the part to you.”

“You’re a riot, Q,” Santana deadpans. “Except I do have a question for you.”

“Hit me.”

“Did you mean what you said, about how Rachel’s totally sucking at supporting herself?”

“That’s the worst way to put it, but yes. Why?”

“Well,” Santana stumbles, suddenly sounding nervous, “do you think she’d be up for a roommate? Because I can’t stand being in Lima anymore, Quinn. My mother’s driving me insane and Schuester keeps calling me into Glee practice to mentor his newest batch of dweebs, and I say yes, because why the hell not? I barely work during the day. Do you know, yesterday I took my mom’s car to get fixed and actually had a conversation with the mechanic before I realized it was Finn fucking Hudson? I’m turning into a total Lima loser.”

“You’re not a Lima loser.”

“I feel like one. Just…put me in a city that doesn’t operate on a first name basis, and I’ll be golden. Find me a bar and I’ll rake in enough dough to get Rachel a lake-view crib.”

“Easy there, killer,” Quinn laughs. “I’m sure Rachel would be more than happy with the company. Besides, this way I can bug you about Billie Holiday in real time.”

“God, I can’t wait for you to be finished with this. I can smell your pretentiousness over the phone.”

“I’ll float the idea by her, see if she can stomach living with you again.”

“Well, living in such close proximity to your boyfriend and his gross man-stench hasn’t melted her yet, so I think she can handle me.”

“I’ll call you with the details, okay? I have to get back to the auditions.” With a quick goodbye, Quinn hangs up.

Rachel rolls her eyes as she strolls back in the room. “ _There_ you are, Quinn! This process is already laborious enough; we don’t need any more delays.”

Quinn sits back down and closes her packet of candidate headshots. “Well, I think I have a way to shorten it,” she says proudly.

(Santana was joking when she said it, but the more Quinn thinks about it, the more it makes sense. It’s like, why look for substitutes when you can go right to the source?)

“What do you mean?” Rachel asks.

“There are times when I’m writing the script,” Quinn explains, “where I just get into this groove. I don’t really know what I’m writing or why I’m writing it, but I know that it’s right. And it’s a hard groove to find, but if I get stuck and I want to find it, I just have to ask myself one question: What would Santana say?”

Rachel and Mike stare at her with weary blank faces.

“Santana’s moving here for the foreseeable future,” Quinn continues. “And I think that, after today, we should cancel all of the auditions and cast her instead. As Billie, I mean,” she clarifies.

“Awesome,” Mike replies.

“Santana’s moving here?” Rachel blurts. “When?”

Quinn clears her throat. “Um, how soon can you clear some space for her? I know you’re just itching for a roomie.”

Rachel narrows her eyes. “I live in a crappy one-bedroom. That means one bed, Quinn.”

“Which is why it’s so nice that you and Santana are so close already.” Rachel is unmoved. “Come on, Rach,” Quinn pleads, “you saw her in _West Side Story_ and all those college shows. You know she’s good enough.”

“I know she’s _good_ enough,” Rachel concedes. “But is she great?”

Quinn raises her eyebrows. “Really? You’ve been friends for five years and that’s the question you ask?”

“I just don’t want this to be a silly high school project, Quinn. I mean, there’s us and now the dancing—no offense, Mike—and it just feels like an indulgent way to reunite old friends.”

“We’re clearly getting nowhere looking at strangers. Who cares how we know someone if they’re simply perfect for the part?”

“Look, I know that Santana is a capable performer. But Billie is such a huge role. How am I supposed to trust—I mean, _really_ trust—that she can pull it off? We can’t just give it to her right away.”

“You’re the one who wanted to speed up our progress. The quicker we cast Billie, the quicker we can find a Jimmy or a Lester to play off her.”

“There’s a difference between speeding things up and rushing them, Quinn.”

“Just think about it, would you?” Quinn says as she gets up. “I can’t listen to any more of these people. I’ll see you later.”

/

It takes three days to change Rachel’s mind, and it isn’t even Quinn who does it. Well, she’s the one who shows Rachel the video. But it’s Brittany who sent it in the first place.

Her phone pings with a text as she’s revising yet another scene.

 **[From: Brittany]** _Scored the VIP passes for Gaga! 4 of them under your name for December 28 th, so you better not have anything going on that night._

 _You just made this the best day ever_ , Quinn replies, smiling. _Santana is gonna flip when we tell her._

 **[From: Brittany]** _How are you going to get her to Chicago?_

_You know better than I do that she’s a total softie. Between Rachel and me, we can totally play up a massive guilt trip._

**[From: Brittany]** _Sometimes I forget how evil you can be._

Quinn smiles at that. It’s totally an evil smile, and it feels really good.

_Actually, I have a question for you. Do you have a minute to talk?_

Brittany calls her instead of answering. “What’s up?” she says without any preamble.

“You know how Santana gets all world-traveler when she gets sad?”

Brittany pauses. “Yeah.”

“So I just wanted to get your opinion on something. I called her the other day and she threw around the idea of relocating here for a while—”

“You don’t need to ask my permission, Quinn. Santana can do what she wants.”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m asking at all. See, she wants to come here just for a change, make something of herself in another city, I guess. But I want to make her into _someone_. I want her to be Billie, Britt, and I need to know what you think of that. Rachel thinks I’m crazy and Mike will basically agree with anything, so I’m a little lost here.”

“I—I don’t know, Quinn,” Brittany stammers. “I don’t know a lot about Billie Holiday. I don’t know what to say that would change Rachel’s mind.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“But I know what she can watch.”

“What?”

“I have to hang up to show you, okay? Hold on a sec.”

“Okay.”

“Say hi to Beth for me!”

Quinn smiles. “Will do.”

Three minutes later she gets an email with a video attached.  Brittany’s message is so perfectly Brittany that only about sixty percent of it makes sense to Quinn.

_I tried to text but it was too big, sorry! You know how Santana says stuff better with music than when she’s just talking? Or maybe you don’t because mostly she sings it all to me. But anyway, you should show this to Rachel and save it for Beth when she gets sad. It always cheers me up._

When she watches the video, though, everything makes sense.

It takes about ten seconds after she hits play for Quinn to realize that this is something she and Rachel need to watch together. She’s knocking on Rachel’s door a moment later, and not even the death glare Rachel gives her can deter her from her mission.

“I’m working, Quinn. Is this urgent?”

“Absolutely,” Quinn replies, shoving her way inside. “I have proof that Santana is the perfect Billie.”

Rachel crosses her arms. “What is it?”

“A video Brittany sent me,” Quinn says, shaking her phone.

“A video of what?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t watched it yet.”

“Then how do you know it’s adequate proof?”

“Because it’s a video of Santana that Brittany sent to me. I mean, come on, that’s like asking how your body knows that it’s supposed to breathe.”

“Fine,” Rachel huffs, “let’s see it.”

She shuffles over to Quinn’s side as it starts to play. The quality is grainy, like Brittany was taking a video of a video, and Santana’s back is to the camera, but Quinn knows it’s her. Still, there’s a surreal quality to the whole thing, because Quinn can’t place where it is and also she’s pretty sure Santana is holding a baby.

“Where is that?” Rachel asks.

Quinn eventually recognizes the crib. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “That’s Beth’s room. At my mom’s house, I mean.”

“Then that’s Beth.”

“I can’t really see her face, but I think so. Jeez, this video must be at least five years old; Beth is just a baby.”

“I didn’t even think Santana started acknowledging Beth until she turned three,” Rachel mumbles. “How did you ever convince her to babysit back then?”

“I didn’t. Brittany babysat and, well…”

“Right,” Rachel nods. “Start it over; I wasn’t paying attention to the song.”

Quinn rewinds it back to the beginning. She sort of melts when Santana starts singing “Summertime.” Probably for different reasons than why Brittany melts, but she melts all the same. She’s always appreciated how good Santana is with Beth, but a lot of why she’s good is because they’re both big schemers. Watching Santana with Beth is like watching the five-year-old friendship Quinn and Santana could have had if they’d met earlier. Beth is sneaky enough to pull off Santana’s pranks, and Santana is creative enough to think of them. It’s the kind of partnership that could destroy the world if they were evil.

But watching this video--watching Santana rock Beth to sleep; watching her cradle Beth’s head and smooth her hair; watching her bounce Beth in her arms gently, comfortingly—it makes Quinn melt because she realizes that Santana is good with Beth because she really, really loves her.

Quinn remembers this night. Sometime in December—it was slushy and cold and every time Quinn looked out of the window, it was snowing. She remembers feeling a little bit guilty about having such a good date with Noah because it seemed like a really good night to be sad. And it turns out she was right, because while she was laughing over egg rolls and fried rice, Santana was alone in a nursery, swaying with a child who wasn’t even hers and probably wondering why that hurt her so much.

Right before the video cuts off, Quinn sees Santana’s hand flutter near her face, and that’s when she knows just how perfect Santana is for this part. The tears that Quinn can’t see (but the ones she absolutely knows are there), they’re the tears that happen when you cry without really knowing why. Santana’s sadness is without reason, without immediate cause, and without cure. It is the kind of sadness that does not settle or ever go away completely. The kind of sadness that makes you want to rearrange your entire life—move to a different city, quit your job, follow your dreams—while simultaneously making you terrified of following through.

“Play it again,” Rachel whispers.

Santana’s seventeen-year-old sadness is her twenty-two-year-old sadness, and it will be her sixty-year-old sadness, too. Quinn knows now—the deep-in-your-bones, burned-into-your-mind kind of knowing—exactly why Santana needs to be Billie. The essence of Billie Holiday isn’t about struggle or fame or loss. It’s about how she dealt with all of those things. It’s about taking every moment of your life—the happy moments, the sad moments, the angry, desperate, wonderful moments—and never really letting go of any of them. Most people process emotions like a sieve. They dump every feeling into a container and shake it out until only the important ones remain, and even those are more delicate, more refined. The emotions that are too big to fit through are memories—shadows of themselves.

Santana is not a sieve. Santana is a sponge.

Quinn melts again when she replays the video, but this time she cries, too.

Rachel seems just as affected. “She’s…”

“Perfect,” Quinn finishes.

“ _Stunning_ ,” Rachel emphasizes. “How soon can she be here, do you think?”

Quinn smiles. “Why don’t you call her and ask?”

* * *

 

The first week of December, that’s the answer to Rachel’s question, and it’s still too long a wait for either of their likings. Quinn and Rachel are beside themselves preparing, which is sort of silly given that Santana is completely in the dark about everything.

It’s the first visit to Chicago where Santana’s initial stop isn’t Quinn’s apartment. For one thing, she gets in while Quinn and Noah are at work, so Rachel volunteers to take her around the city for a few hours. Then Quinn has to pick Beth up from school, and by the time she gets home, Rachel, Noah, and Santana are in her living room and Santana looks like she could drown in a glass of whiskey.

“Having fun?” Quinn laughs as she walks into the room.

Santana leans her head over the back of the couch. “Oh my god, Q, get these two _away_ from me. It’s like watching a zebra try to convert a lion to vegetarianism and I swear I’d feed the zebra to the lion at this point if I thought that would make it stop, but it won’t. It never ends.”

Quinn chuckles as she bends over, kissing Santana’s forehead in lieu of an answer. “You’re the one who wanted to move here. I make no apologies for any strange people you may find.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Did you settle in okay?” Quinn asks as she sits down next to Santana.

“Yep, all moved in to Rachel’s shack.”

“Hey!” Rachel objects.

“Which is impeccably decorated and _totally_ awesome,” Santana adds, mouthing a _not_ when Rachel turns away.

“Well, good, because Rachel and I have some surprises that we’ve been dying to share with you.”

“Wanky.”

“Oh, shut up.” Quinn takes the envelope that Rachel passes her and hands it to Santana. “I did a little digging and found some bars that you might like that are also looking to hire.”

The smirk is gone from Santana’s face. “Shit, thanks.”

“There’s a little something extra in there, too,” Quinn smiles. She watches Santana’s face travel through all the stages of confusion as she unfolds the printout. It isn’t the tickets themselves, but it’s enough.

“Tickets to Lady Gaga’s concert?”

“Not just tickets,” Quinn corrects, “VIP passes. Backstage access, meeting Lady Gaga, the whole shebang. Oh, well, and I guess Brittany will be there, too,” she jokes.

Santana doesn’t join in like Quinn expects. Instead, her smile thins and her cheeks look stormy. “Look, I—I really, _really_ appreciate the gesture. But she’s here for, what, two shows and then she’s gone? I can’t take that.”

“Au contraire, mes ami,” Quinn trills, lifting a finger. “I mean, the tour is indeed in town for two shows. But they’re staying for a bit longer than that. See, there’s a break before they depart for the Asian leg of the journey.”

Santana looks like she can barely move her mouth. “How big of a break?”

“Until January 20th,” Quinn smiles.

“You’re shitting me, Q.”

“I am not!” she gasps dramatically.

A smile spreads over Santana’s face, slowly, until even her hair looks happy. “I think I kind of want to make out with you right now.”

“Finally, _yes_ ,” Noah hisses.

Quinn can only laugh. “As much as I love you, Santana, I’ll have to decline.”

“Oh, well,” Santana shrugs. “You’re missing out on a good time.”

Both Noah and Rachel nod.

“And, to completely cap off the evening on a wonderful note, I can finally tell you that Rachel and I have found our perfect Billie,” Quinn announces.

Santana adjusts herself on the couch, draping an arm over the side. “Ooh, color me intrigued. What’s she like?”

Quinn cranes her head in thought. “Well, she’s fiery, that’s for sure. Always ready with a witty retort, even when she doesn’t need one. But she’s got some of Billie’s sadness too, you know? She’s got the blues a little bit. Anyway, she did some shows in college but took a break to move to California, and she’s only just now rediscovering the idea of performing. She might be a little rusty, and it’ll be a learning process for all of us, but I think she’ll be sublime.”

The dimmer switch in Santana’s eyes is slowly rising, making the lightbulb glow brighter as she deciphers the implications. “Wait. Quinn…”

“Ever think about being in a musical, Santana? I mean, _really_ think about it.”

Santana’s answer is not as immediate as Quinn would have hoped, which is to say that after a long, uncomfortable while, Santana doesn’t answer at all. 


	11. Brittany (Act One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have gotten a little bit carried away with this one. Something I also might have done: added a conjunction or two to beef up the word count because it is 15,000 words exactly and I like round numbers. That also makes this chapter the longest chapter I've ever written, and at almost 200 pages, this story is by far the longest thing I've ever written and we're just getting started lololol what's wrong with me. Anyway, kept this one a secret from my lovely beta lazarus_girl (because I'm a sadist), so any inconsistencies are absolutely my fault. Lyrics at the beginning are from "Past Lives" by Ke$ha. Enjoy!

 

**_there's just something about you I know_ **   
**_started centuries ago though_**   
**_see, your kiss is like a lost ghost_**   
**_only i would know_**

_“The first act is the most important. It sets the scene, directs the pathos for the rest of the show. This is not a concert you’re participating in. This is a spectacle, a piece of art, a movement. You must feel Romanov in everything you do._

_Our story starts in the middle of the last night the Romanovs were alive. The family is being led to the room where they will be executed—Nicholas, you are carrying Alexis. Alexandra and the boy are sick, weak to the point that they can’t stand on their own. Dancers from the other group will be the officials—they will tell you why you are there. They will not sugarcoat anything. I want you to feel the terror this family felt, to feel the horrible realization that you are about to die. Because even though you have been imprisoned for a year, this is a surprise. It has been a trying reign for the entire family; the aristocracy was already on its way out. But you are Nicholas’s wives and daughters and sons, and underneath everything, Nicholas believed in his power. He believed he could serve the people well._

_And so, even with a gun to his head, he has conviction. He is quiet, but he is certain. “You know not what you do,” he says, and then they kill him._

_You do not get much time with these people. I want you to make it count._

_The dances you do in death are the most important. I will not choreograph these. I want you to feel the beats, feel the lights, breathe the smoke. Make it different every performance. The audience is coming to every show already loving the music._

_I want you to make them **believe** it.”_

/

Henrik is really intense. Like, really, really intense. He’s so intense that sometimes Brittany can’t tell if he’s being serious or just super dramatic.

Like the whole first act, for example. He spends so much time coaching them on the feelings and the grace of the characters that he totally skips over the plot. Gavin has to explain to her pretty much everything that happens because it involves two people named Anastasia, one angry Ivan, and a lot of scheming priests.

(This is what she gets out of it the whole thing:

Lady Gaga is Anastasia, the youngest daughter of Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov, the last monarchs of the Russian dynasty. There are a lot of conspiracy theories about Anastasia, how maybe she died with the rest of her family or maybe she survived. It even spawned an animated movie, which is what confuses Brittany when she’s tired.

But anyway, in Lady Gaga’s story, Rasputin didn’t die and neither did Anastasia. Everyone still got shot and Anastasia was really hurt when Rasputin came back to save her, but he worked his weird Russian magic and sent her back in time to the start of the Romanov line. Because Ivan IV’s wife, her name was Anastasia Romanovna.

Gavin is pretty sure that Lady Gaga was really high or wasted when she came up with this plot, but it’s oddly compelling.)

It’s a lot to take in and remember—a lot of feelings to feel and dances to dance, and that’s only one act out of five—but Brittany gets the hang of it really quickly once the shows start.

It’s everything she’s dreamed of and nothing that she expected, all rolled into one.

This is the first tour that Brittany’s been on and she knows nothing could ever top it. Everything is just so _weird_. The music is weird, Lady Gaga is weird, the fans are super weird. They’re all the kind of people that Brittany wanted to meet in high school. Every night is her favorite night because she can just lose herself in the performance. It’s like dancing in Glee, only so much better because Glee was in high school and high school was only about parties.

These shows she’s putting on every night, they’re celebrations.

Brittany didn’t know so many people knew the difference between the two words, but there they are every night, dancing on stage and in the crowd.

It’s nice.

/

She and Santana don’t Skype as much as they said they would, but it’s enough for now. They have to find weird times to talk because of their schedules, so sometimes the glare from a midafternoon sun makes it hard for Brittany to see Santana, and sometimes Brittany has to turn on all of her hotel lights because Santana can’t find her in the dark.

They talk about Lady Gaga and Italian food; how working at Breadstix is not nearly as fun as eating there; how Mama Monster is a lot more business than Brittany would have thought. She’s fun and strange and loving, but she runs her tour like a ship.

(They try not to talk about how much they miss each other. They say that enough with their eyes, anyway).

Brittany Skypes a lot with her mom, and also with Maribel, which is a nice surprise. One day Santana leaves her Skype open while she goes to get a bowl of chips, and the next thing Brittany knows, Maribel is creeping in and telling her all the things Santana won’t. They talk pretty frequently after that. It’s the kind of thing that could have been painful, but Brittany just takes comfort in the way that Maribel’s mouth crinkles exactly the same way Santana’s does when she laughs. Or maybe it’s the other way around, but Brittany met Santana first, so.

And then Quinn calls in August and suddenly Skype isn’t enough because she’s got the promise of something better.

/

The first time Maribel calls her _mija_ , Brittany kind of freaks, and then she feels bad for making fun of Santana’s face when she said she loved Brittany’s mom. But it’s just so natural and loving that Brittany can’t help but blush.

It starts with Santana, because most things in Brittany’s life do.

“How are you doing, Brittany?” Maribel asks, and then she fiddles with the camera because she always does, no matter how many times Brittany tells her that it’s fine.

“I’m good,” Brittany laughs. “We’re in Memphis tonight; it’s pretty awesome.”

“Too much country for me,” Maribel replies. “But you should take Santana there; she’d love it.”

“Nashville is the country one,” Brittany corrects. “Memphis is really jazzy.”

Maribel dismisses her with a wave of her hand. “Ah, well. Tennessee is all country to me. Not anywhere I need to go, with all that patriotism coming from accents I can’t for the life of me understand.”

Brittany almost says that she could say the same thing about Maribel when she really gets going in Spanish, but years with Santana have taught her the language’s most important words.

“Well, I’ll take her there anyway,” Brittany smiles. “Especially now that she’s helping Quinn and Rachel with their play.”

Maribel scrunches her eyebrows.  “Which play?”

“Oh,” Brittany falters. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Brittany,” Maribel chides. “Santana barely ever tells me anything.”

“Well, then that means it’s important,” Brittany says, remembering something Santana told her once. “Santana doesn’t like talking about stuff until she’s sure it’s worth talking about.”

“For Santana, I suppose that’s sweet.” Maribel gives her a knowing smile. “I guess that means you’re really worth it, huh?”

“I hope so,” Brittany jokes, fluttering her ring finger at the camera.

“What’s the play about?” Maribel presses.

“Billie Holiday. Quinn’s writing it and she sends stuff to Santana to look over.”

“My daughter, the editor? I would never have imagined it, given those English scores.”

“Right, Santana was totally a science geek,” Brittany mumbles. “I think it’s more about the feelings, though. Quinn would never let her edit writing stuff.”

“Feelings. Hmm. I’ll have to ask her about that.” Maribel looks like she just found a twenty dollar bill on the sidewalk and doesn’t plan on giving it back to the rich guy who dropped it. “Anyway, you have a show to get ready for; don’t let me keep you. I’m doing well; you’re doing well; Santana’s doing well. Go have fun.”

“Okay,” Brittany laughs.

“Alright. We’ll talk later, _mija_ , okay? Love you!”

Brittany blushes and barely gets out a “Yeah, later, love you,” before Maribel hangs up. She feels like she’s just been inducted into the best kind of club.

She texts Santana before she leaves for dress rehearsal ( _your mom is probably going to talk to you soon, I might have had something to do with it but it was totally an accident. Love you silly xx_ ).

Three hours later Santana sends her a picture of her in the middle of an overwrought faint with the caption _Oh, the melodrama of parental chats! I need to not live at home._

Brittany tries not to laugh all the way through her serious performance.

She mostly succeeds.

/

The more involved with Quinn and Rachel’s play that Santana becomes, the more restless Brittany gets. She wants to spill the beans so bad—to Maribel, to her mom, to Santana—about the Lady Gaga tickets because it is the best surprise she’s ever pulled. But she can’t say anything because ruining surprises is one of the worst things you can do to someone. One time her sister let slip about a Christmas present when Brittany was eight and she cried for a week. She takes her pranks and surprises very seriously.

But it’s also seriously hard to keep quiet because Brittany can tell that Santana is just inching her way toward Chicago. Maribel keeps saying how she’s not meant for Lima and Santana keeps saying how she’s not meant for Lima and Quinn keeps saying how much she relies on Santana to write the musical, and Brittany just starts getting this sneaky feeling that something is going to happen. It’s the kind of creeping feeling that you get at the top of rollercoasters, or when you’re watching one of those movies where the main characters keep missing each other by half a second. So she _definitely_ can’t spoil things now.

It gets even worse when she finally tells Quinn about the tickets because then Quinn tells Brittany that she thinks Santana should be Billie Holiday and those creeping rollercoasters have turned into an entire amusement park, like every Six Flags in the country is sitting in her stomach and rolling over her heart.

She sends Quinn the video because she doesn’t know what else will bring this thing to an end and finally send a car over the first drop.

/

(She sends Quinn the video but she doesn’t tell her what it is. Quinn watches and probably sees a young, flawed Santana, the same one who has grown into a flawed woman, which is exactly the kind she needs for her show.

Quinn doesn’t see the video that has lasted for five years, through college and moving across the country and nights when both of them were too homesick to be nice. She doesn’t see the video that Brittany transfers to every new phone she gets, the one that is saved on her phone and her laptop and her Mom’s computer, just for good measure; the one that always sits in her inbox, in the same five-year-old message that she keeps just in case she’s on the road and lonely.

Quinn doesn’t see the video that reminds Brittany every time she watches it what kind of person Santana is. She might hear the song and see the gentle swaying, but Quinn doesn’t hear the implicit _I love you_ s; she doesn’t see the future that those peaceful swoops and swirls paint.

Quinn will watch the video and understand that Billie has been hiding under her nose all this time. But she will not understand that she is watching a promise that has nothing to do with musicals.)

/

Santana calls her the night she gets to Chicago. Brittany wonders how long she’s actually been there, if it took moments or minutes or hours to put the pieces together.

“Hey, baby,” she smiles when she picks up.

“Hi,” Santana breathes. “I have a question for you.”

“Okay.”

“Quinn and Rachel want me to be Billie Holiday. Like, leading actress, title role of the musical, the whole thing.”

“Okay.”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, that was the question?”

“Britt!”

“Sorry,” Brittany laughs. “You know I can’t resist when you do that.”

“This is serious,” Santana grumbles.

“I know, sweetie. But I don’t think I can answer it for you.”

“No fair.”

“I know you can do it, though,” Brittany continues. “And I know you’d be completely _amazing_ at it.”

Santana sniffles—quietly, but Brittany can always hear it. “Really?” she asks softly. “Because I think I want this really bad, Britt. But I just—it’s a huge thing, like, well, like Billie Holiday kind of huge, and what if I can’t pull it off? I mean, you cast one person wrong and you tank the whole show, you know? I mean, that’s assuming it actually gets funding and takes off—”

“Santana,” Brittany interrupts. “Do Quinn and Rachel believe in this show?”

“Yes.”

“Do _you_ believe in this show?" 

“Yes.”

Brittany shrugs, even though Santana can’t see her. “Then it’ll happen. And I know Quinn and Rachel already believe in you. So you just need to believe in yourself, whether that means you take the part or not. But, you know, don’t say no just because you don’t want to think about it.”

“I miss you,” Santana says, her voice wobbly and cracking.

“I miss you, too, San.”

“And on that subject—you little sneak! I can’t believe you kept that from me for so long,” Santana teases, amidst clearing her throat.

“Oh, Quinn told you? _Finally_ ,” Brittany sighs. “It was killing me not telling you about those tickets. You guys are gonna freak when you see the show.”

“Wait, we’re going to your concert?” Santana screeches. “Oh my god, when are you coming to town?”

Brittany completely panics. “What? No, I thought Quinn told you; oh my god, Santana, I’m so sorry for ruining it—” But the second she hears Santana’s wheezing laughter, she stops talking and switches from apologetic to Sue Sylvester’s stern little protégé. “Santana, that is _not_ funny. You know how much I hate ruining surprises.”

“Oh god,” Santana gasps, “that was totally worth it. Payback’s a bitch, babe.”

“So not fair,” Brittany grumps. “You’re totally in for it when I get to Chicago.”

“Ooh, sounds fun,” Santana smirks.

“Yeah, keep dreaming,” Brittany jokes.

Santana laughs with her and goes quiet immediately after. Brittany knows what she looks like right now, sheepish eyes and cheeks, impossibly long lashes, lips pouting with fear and longing. “I really can’t wait to see you, Britt-Britt,” Santana murmurs. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I miss you, too, baby. I’m going out of my mind knowing I’ll be there soon. It’s driving Gavin crazy.”

“Yeah?” Santana laughs. “Are you pacing or are you doing that thing where you ask a million questions about, like, who would rule the world first: snakes with hands or dolphins that could walk?”

“He wouldn’t even listen to me when I started explaining how dolphins are giant assholes, so of course they’d win. I even had my orca speech all prepared, because they’re totally the worst part of the dolphin family.”

“I know, baby,” Santana coos. “I totally support you. Dolphins are dicks.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Am not!” Santana insists. “Dolphins are totally sociopaths. I read this thing about how they kill porpoises just because they can. And they kill tiny baby dolphins, too.”

“Right!” Brittany exclaims.

“I got your back, Britt-Britt. Don’t worry.”

That’s exactly it, though. These are the kinds of moments that let Brittany know everything will be okay. She won’t have to worry because everything will always be okay with Santana.

“I love you, San,” Brittany says. “I really, really love you.”

/

There are twenty two shows in between Brittany and Santana. Twenty two shows over ten states and Brittany crosses all of them off the calendar she keeps in her bag.

Atlanta (twenty one), that’s when Henrik puts her in the front line for the group numbers.

Seventeen—Phoenix—is when every dancer a row behind her stops scowling at her back.

Austin? Denver? Whatever it is, it’s twelve and she wishes that Santana were there to look at the sky with her. It’s the kind of sky that you want to share with your favorite person.

By the time they get to Kansas City—six—Brittany is beside herself with excitement. She loves New York and California and every state she’s seen and she’ll never live in Ohio again. But the Midwest is home. The Midwest means memories and friends and Santana.

She’s in Chicago when she gets to one. The first show passes without a swarm of happiness flooding the backstage area, engulfing her in pairs of arms that she hasn’t seen in a very long time.

When she wakes up the day of the second show, the last show of the American tour, the show that Santana is going to see—Brittany cries.

/

_Don’t try and find me; I don’t want to see you guys until after the show because if you find me before I won’t be able to concentrate at all_.

Brittany sends that to Quinn five minutes after she gets up, because she might lose the nerve if she waits any longer. She can barely concentrate on anything right now she’s so excited.

**[From: Quinn]** _You’re gonna owe me a lot of favors when this is over. Santana is insufferable right now. Even Rachel is getting annoyed with her._

Brittany giggles. She can imagine how insufferable Santana is. She also can’t wait to be the one to fix it.

Gavin sneaks up behind her and pinches her sides. “You ready? Because I am totally ready for you to get off the crazy train.”

“Gavin.”

“And I can’t _wait_ to see Santana. Ten bucks says she gets all flustered when she meets Lady Gaga.”

“Gavin.”

“It’s too bad you haven’t found a ring for her yet. I’d pay big money to watch her faint from all the excitement.”

“Gavin, if you don’t stop pinching me I’m going to pee all over this bed.”

He lets go of her and waves his hand in the direction of the hotel bathroom. “Crazy train still has one more stop, apparently. Go. Relieve yourself, little Chihuahua.”

If she’s one stop away from Santana Station, it’s the slowest ride in the world. She even pees too slowly. There are nine hours before she has to go on stage, probably twelve before she gets to see Santana, and they all feel like they’re moving backwards.

Brittany’s always thought that it would be fun to mess with time, but she doesn’t appreciate it when time messes with her.

/

(Her phone blows up with text messages the entire day.

**[From: Quinn]** _Six hours! So close!_

**[From: Quinn]** _I’m turning the tables on you and bringing a surprise guest. Noah’s staying home with Beth. Not really his thing, but he’ll see you later._

**[From: Rachel]** _As a musical theater major, I can’t wait to experience the theatricality of Lady Gaga’s show up close and personal._

**[From: Rachel]** _Are we really going to meet her, Brittany? Because I think I might cry or faint, and Kurt tells me I have a very high-pitched squeal when I get too excited._

**[From: Rachel]** _Please don’t tell Santana I said that._

**[From: Quinn]** _Three hours! Can’t wait!_

**[From: Santana]** _God you are going to look so fucking hot on that stage. I hope you have a soundproof dressing room._

Dress rehearsal is a welcome distraction.)

/

Brittany has never felt this feeling before, like a mix of indigestion and anticipation and also all of her bones are on fire. Gavin clasps her shoulder and Henrik watches her as she gets into place; he squeezes his arms tighter to his body with a comforting smile. _Pull it together, Brittany,_ he says, and she does.

She swallows her feelings, sets her jaw and enters the world of Russian royalty.

(Santana, Quinn, Rachel, and whoever else Quinn is bringing are in for the night of their lives. Brittany knows this because she knows what they’re seeing right now. She only wishes she could see them, too.)

The show isn’t really a show. It’s a spectacle, an artistically masterful piece of campy goodness. By the end of the night, Brittany will have run through almost every emotion it’s possible to feel (and then Santana will bring the rest with her.)

It starts with the execution, and no matter how many times she does it, it never gets any less affecting. The stage opens bathed in ominous lights—blues, greens, purples that look like bruises and bad omens. The group of executioners show up with prop guns, ones that always remind Brittany of the kind that were in the last musical number of _Chicago_. They stand there for a long time, just long enough for the crowd to start getting restless, and that’s when the drum kicks in.

Mitch goes crazy on the bass drum with the entrances of every successive Romanov family member. Brittany smiles when he taps a quiet tinkle on his cymbals when Nicholas comes in carrying Alexis. It’s a good thing she comes in after because the way Gavin tries to hide his smile every night always makes her laugh.

But she channels her inner diplomat and strides in as Alexandra gracefully, or at least as graceful as she can be when she remembers that she has to be scared, elegant, and very sick. The cheering goes insane when Lady Gaga comes on stage; it always delays the show for at least a minute. In every city, Brittany has tried to measure the audience by the kind of response they have to Lady Gaga’s entrance. It’s been an interesting experiment; the farther away they got from either coast, the louder the yells became. Like the kids in smaller towns needed Gaga more. It’s a nice feeling.

Tonight, the screams eclipse any other night on tour. It’s a perfect way to send them off to Russia (Brittany can’t even fathom what the screams are going to be like there. Or maybe there won’t be any because they’ll be too busy being offended.)

But Lady Gaga commands the stage as soon as she steps onto it, and the silence that comes right before they’re all shot is always chilling. It’s so sudden, so serious, such a change from the frenzied screaming of moments before. Lady Gaga takes her place among the family, standing hunched and small as Anastasia.

Brittany has gotten shot for five months, but it shocks her every time. The lights are too bright, the gunshots are too loud. Henrik’s orchestrated it that way on purpose, and Brittany supposes that the frustration she feels every night is a good indication that he’s doing his job.

Nicholas exits the stage in a stately march. The rest of the dancers look to her and Gavin to leave—quietly, but with an impact, like they usually do—but they’ve prepared something special, since this is the last night of the American tour. They’re slumped in their chairs, eyes closed, waiting for the quiet tremolo of the violin.

It starts—tenuous, wailing—and Brittany and Gavin move like air, like they’re feathers floating on the same breeze, finding the same pockets and currents and swooping around them in arcs so smooth you couldn’t find a single seam out of place. They are impossibly in sync, the kind of fluidity that seems to be created in the mind rather than the body. They carry their chairs with every step, crossing legs and hunching their backs to thrust them upwards.

The entire arena is silent when they leave the stage, and then it explodes.

Henrik is _furious_. He looks like he could kiss both of them, but he’s absolutely livid with rage.

Brittany passes through the first quick change listening to him yell and feeling his spit on her cheek.

“You are both the biggest idiots I’ve ever had to coach,” he hisses. “You pull a stunt like that again and I will make sure you’re on the first plane home; I don’t care if we’re in fucking Sydney. You want to improvise, you tell me about it as soon as that thought even entertains the idea of entering your mind. If you come back from this break and you aren’t terrified of me, don’t come back at all. Because I will break you. These shows are carefully crafted pieces of art; you do _not_ change them without telling me.”

Brittany pulls her hair into the tightest ponytail she can manage. Sue Sylvester would be proud.

She bounces on the balls of her feet as she prepares to go onstage for the first song.

“Brittany,” Henrik calls after her.

She turns around, anxious that she’ll miss her cue. “What?” Her voice is sharper than she wants it to be, given the scolding she’s just gotten.

Henrik smiles. “Anything you drink, it’s on me tonight. Tell Gavin, too.” He winks. “You’ve got balls of steel, Brittany,” he says as he walks away. “Balls the size of fucking Jupiter.”

/

The rest of the show is physically exhausting. Brittany barely feels any of it.

She is just as enraptured as the audience when Rasputin puts on a show and transports Anastasia back 400 years. She laughs from her place on stage when Anastasia tries to impress Ivan IV amidst a throng of hopeful women. She grins at Lady Gaga when they face off as the final two, dancing and flitting around for Ivan’s amusement. She’s surprised when the Boyars start to scheme around the happy couple, sabotaging their relationship until it is a toxic shadow of itself. Brittany feels like crying when Anastasia drinks from a poisoned goblet; she actually does cry when Ivan finds her body. And Brittany feels positively transcendent when she and the rest of the Romanov family rejoin Anastasia on stage, serenading Ivan even though they can never fully comfort him.

In a move that surprises all of the dancers, Lady Gaga invites the whole ensemble on stage for an encore acoustic set. Most of the dancers spend the time joking with each other, kicking feet and poking shoulders. Brittany laughs, but she takes the moment of rest to scan the crowd for familiar faces. Objectively she knows that she won’t be able to see anything; the bright stage lights obscure her vision too much. But somewhere in her heart she hopes she’ll be able to sense at least which side of the stage Santana’s on.

(She feels a pull toward the left, but that’s just because Santana’s left hand is _totally_ her dominant one.)

But she doesn’t spy her favorite pair of eyes, so as soon as the show’s over she rushes back stage and grabs her phone, ignoring calls from any of the other dancers. She barely pays attention to any of the texts people sent her at intermission, too focused on composing a new one to Santana.

_Go find Ken, big Hawaiian security guard. He’s the guy you need to show your passes to to get backstage. If I have to wait to see you any longer, I’m going to combust, San._

It takes fifteen minutes for them to show up, probably because they’re going the wrong way against a gigantic crowd. Quinn and Rachel yell as soon as they see her, and Brittany vaguely registers the look of awe on Mike’s face, but all she sees is Santana.

Santana, stunning in a pair of black skinny jeans; breathtaking with the way her hair falls around her face; dazzling smile on display and the flush of her cheeks matching killer red boots, but the best part of everything is that she’s beautifully, magnificently, _gorgeously_ five feet away from her and still advancing.

Brittany catches her with every part of her body. She lifts her from the ground as Santana’s legs wrap around her body and Brittany isn’t sure if she’s laughing and Santana’s crying or if it’s the other way around because there is no way she can decipher all of her feelings right now. She’s pretty sure a million feelings are being invented every time she buries her face deeper into Santana’s hair and gets a whiff of her shampoo. She creates new words for emotions that already exist when she feels Santana’s shaking stomach and how hers is doing the exact same thing.

Crying, then. They’re both definitely crying.

“I missed—oh, fuck that,” Santana growls, her sobs subsiding as quickly as they began. She steals Brittany’s lips, claims them as her own in the most tragic kiss they’ve ever shared. Brittany doesn’t want Santana to feel that kind of ache ever again. So she sucks it out of her, pulls with teeth and tongue and always a smile.

“Hi, baby,” she hiccups when they pull apart. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe how _hot_ you look,” Santana purrs, slipping a finger under the waistband of Brittany’s sweatpants and pulling her closer. “I wasn’t kidding about that dressing room.”

“No, clearly not,” Brittany smirks. She presses her hips against Santana’s, slides her hands around to flutter above Santana’s back pockets, and kisses her the exact way she’s been dying to for months. It’s a kiss that’s indecent even for private company, let alone an audience of all of her friends and coworkers who know exactly what this night means for her. Anytime else, the wolf whistles would be unwelcome. Tonight they are her favorite song.

But she has plans for Santana later, so she pulls away again. They have more than enough time to get reacquainted.

“I promise you, we will _definitely_ continue this later,” she hums, resting her forehead against Santana’s. “But right now it’s friend-time because I’ve missed other people, too.” She bops Santana playfully on the nose.

“Well then I’m reserving a lot of girlfriend-time later.”

“Oh, San. I plan on making every second of these next three weeks girlfriend-time.”

(She turns away before Santana fully smiles because Brittany knows that if she doesn’t, she’ll forget about all of her friends completely.)

Quinn has her eyebrow raised when Brittany finally sees her. Rachel is blushing like a maniac and Mike won’t even look at her.

“ _That_ was one for the record books,” Quinn remarks. “Now I see why you almost failed sex ed.”

“Uh, we passed that shit with _flying_ colors,” Santana counters.

But Brittany ignores them both and flies into her friends’ awaiting arms; Rachel yelps as they almost topple over.

“I’m so happy to see you guys!” Brittany yells from underneath all of them.

“You were _amazing_ ,” Quinn yells back.

Mike gives her a brief noogie. “That show kicked ass, Britt.”

Brittany emerges and wraps one arm around Quinn, the other around Santana. “Yeah? You guys liked it?”

Quinn, Mike, and Santana all sing praises of the show itself, her performance, and Lady Gaga’s stage presence. Rachel, however, is noticeably quiet. Brittany waits until everyone has stopped talking and then focuses on her.

“What about you, Rach? How’d you like it?”

Rachel looks at her with wide eyes, like a hamster who’s stuffed one too many seeds in his cheeks. She glances around their little circle, finds no prying eyes or eavesdropping ears—and then she explodes, spits all of her words out in a gushing fountain of feelings.

“That show was stunning, Brittany; it really was. The cohesion of everything, how you felt Anastasia’s isolation and Ivan’s slow descent into madness, brought on by the death of his beloved wife, and all of that was only exacerbated by the anachronistic quality with which Anastasia did everything—ripped away from the world she called home, never really belonging to or understanding the world and the man she came to love—and, oh, the ending scene on the balcony: Anastasia, torn between those two worlds, called to both by people she can never rejoin. It was—it was…it was fucking _astounding_ ,” Rachel splutters. “Excuse my French,” she adds a moment later.

“God, I’ve heard you talk, Berry, but I’ve never heard you talk like _that_ ,” Santana says. She squeezes Brittany’s side and looks up at her. “Don’t ask her what she thought of Lady Gaga on her own; we’ll be here until May.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Brittany laughs. “You wanna meet the guy who thought it up?”

Rachel jumps and claps her hands. “Yes!”

“Who is it?” Mike asks.

Brittany scans the rest of the backstage stragglers, knowing that Henrik will have stuck around somewhere. She finds him in a corner, talking with Gavin and one of the other dancers, Ariel. “Henrik!” Brittany calls, waving them all over. She sees Mike’s jaw drop at the name.

“No way,” he breathes. “Henrik Bruun? That guy is a freaking _legend_.”

“And you’re about to meet him,” Brittany mumbles. “So be cool.”

Mike lets his jaw hang for another second, then closes it into a flawless smile. “No problem,” he grins. “I can do cool.”

Henrik saunters over, trailing Gavin and Ariel behind him. “Good show tonight, Brittany,” he says, dipping his head.

“I dunno, I think it was pretty great,” she counters, smirking. “Anyway, Henrik, my friends are dying to meet you and tell you just how great you are. So, this is Quinn, Rachel, Mike, and Santana, my girlfriend. And everyone, this is Henrik Bruun, our amazing choreographer; Ariel, one of our dancers; and I’m pretty sure you guys know Gavin from L.A.”

All of them wave except for Henrik, who just smiles at each name. “Nice to meet you,” he says, his Nordic accent shining through just a little more than usual.

“We wanted to congratulate you on a wonderful show,” Quinn says smoothly, ever the diplomat. “It was, well, it was something else.”

“Thank you,” Henrik accepts gracefully. “We’ve certainly put a lot of effort into it, even if some of those efforts have proved challenging.” He looks pointedly at Brittany, and they all laugh.

“Wonderful isn’t really an adequate description,” Rachel cuts in. “Superb would be more fitting; magnificent, sublime even…”

Henrik smiles like a puppy who’s just caught a particularly well-thrown Frisbee. “I like your friends, Brittany.”

“Yeah, they’re okay,” Brittany jokes.

“Except that one looks like he’s about to burst,” Henrik says, tipping his head in Mike’s direction. Despite his promise to play it cool, Mike is bouncing on the balls of his feet, his smile ready to snap his face in half.

“Sorry,” Mike apologizes, still smiling. “I’m Mike, I’m a dancer, too; big fan of yours.”

Henrik shakes the hand that Mike extends. “A dancer, hm? Any good?”

“Well, I think so,” Mike brags. “But if you want, you can ask Ashley Wheater; I spent a few months with the Joffrey.”

Henrik shakes his head. Brittany knows he appreciates a good-natured show of arrogance. He’s practically made of arrogance himself. “I will,” he promises. “What did you say your name was?”

“Mike. Mike Chang.”

“Good to meet you, Mike Chang,” he smiles. “Good to meet all of you. I have a few things to close up for the night; Brittany, give her about five minutes?”

“Sure,” she nods. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

“Alright,” he says, leaving with a wave of his hand. “Have a good night.”

They all respond in kind. Rachel practically yells.

Mike smacks her shoulder as soon as Henrik is out of earshot. “I can’t believe you never told me he was your choreographer!”

“What, and miss that face?” Brittany teases. “Never.”

“This is the coolest thing you’ve ever done, Britt,” he says, envious. “Seriously.”

“Yeah, no big,” Brittany shrugs. She gets a lot of shoulder smacks for that one.

“And hey, that was an awesome number you guys did in the first act,” Mike says, gesturing between Brittany and Gavin.

Gavin rolls his eyes. “I’m glad you liked it; Henrik almost murdered us when we came back stage.”

“Really?” Rachel asks.

“Oh yeah,” Brittany adds. “He was totally getting stabby. We kind of didn’t tell him we were doing it at all.”

“Dude, that is so _badass_ ,” Mike says reverently.

“That’s my girl,” Santana smiles, squeezing Brittany closer and kissing her on the cheek. Everyone gags.

“You guys wanna see what the stage looks like from my side?” Brittany offers. “They usually keep the house lights on for a little bit after the show ends.”

No one says anything. They just run out past the curtains and walls. Santana drags Brittany so fervently their arms are almost fully extended.

They sit there for a few quiet moments. Rachel, Mike, and Quinn are off to the left, pointing out into the auditorium. It looks smaller and bigger at the same time when no one else is in it.

Santana sits nestled between Brittany’s legs; Brittany can feel the heat of her skin and the way her cheeks bunch from too much smiling.

“I can’t believe you get to see this every night,” she whispers. “This is amazing, Britt-Britt.”

Brittany brings Santana’s hand up to her mouth and kisses the back of it. “I just wish you could share it with me every time. The energy—it’s like Glee on steroids, San. It’s totally awesome.”

Santana laughs and leans back to kiss Brittany’s neck. “I’m sharing it with you now. That’s good enough, right?”

“More than,” Brittany murmurs, nodding.

The lights flicker a few minutes later and Brittany pulls Santana up with her, gesturing for the rest of them to follow her to Lady Gaga’s dressing room.

It turns out that she doesn’t have to tell Santana about that squeaking noise Rachel makes because she treats them all to a live preview.

Brittany just hangs back and smiles at Lady Gaga over everyone else’s heads, especially when Santana’s voice comes out all shaky.

It’s kind of the best night ever.

/

Quinn throws around the idea of going out to a bar or two, but honestly Brittany just wants to sleep for days. So they all climb into Quinn’s car and head in the direction of her apartment. (Mike is the unfortunate one who has to share the backseat with Brittany and Santana. He’s a big boy, it’s a short enough trip—he can handle it.)

“Where am I dropping you two off?” Quinn asks.

Brittany sinks her head onto Santana’s shoulders. “We can take a cab from your place; I don’t want to make you drive into the city. Besides, I wanna say hi to Puck and Beth.”

“Beth is probably asleep,” Quinn says. “Or she better be when we get home.”

“I’ll leave her a present, then.”

“Home it is.”

Brittany plays with Santana’s fingers, kneading her thumbs into the squishy parts right below the knuckles. “Why can’t I just stay with you?” she mumbles.

Santana laughs, sending vibrations into Brittany’s hair. “Babe, I’m living with Rachel and she’s only got one bed.”

“Kinky,” Brittany smiles.

“I can hear you,” Rachel says from the front seat. “And the answer is definitely no.”

Beth is asleep when they get to Quinn’s place, but Puck isn’t. He’s up and smiling as soon as they walk in the door, greeting her with a “ _Damn_ , I’m dating the wrong blonde,” before scooping her up in a giant hug. Brittany smiles and flops on the couch, groaning at how comfortable it is.

She loves being on the road, but this is what she aches for at three in the morning when she can’t sleep. The apartment is decked out with tinsel and lights because Christmas is Beth’s favorite holiday, and it only now sinks in that Christmas happened three days ago. Sure, she called her parents and Maribel and Santana, and sure, she’s in the Midwest so of course it’s been snowing. But she’s been so busy with dancing that she hasn’t really taken the time to feel Christmas. Quinn’s couch is the perfect remedy for that. There is a pile of presents under the tree—Brittany wonders why they haven’t been opened, but she’s too tired to think about it in detail—and paper snowflakes are hanging from the kitchen ceiling. Puck has bumped into them three times already, and now that Beth is in bed he can swear as fluently as he’d like. It makes Brittany giggle. If she thought she could keep her eyes open long enough to finish a mug of hot cocoa, the Christmas feeling would be complete.

“You look tired, baby,” Santana says as she joins her on the couch. She pulls Brittany’s feet over her lap and starts massaging them.

“I am,” Brittany says. “I could totally fall asleep right now. _God_ ,” she groans, “you have the most magic fingers ever.”

“I know,” Santana smirks.

“Hey, I have Christmas presents for everyone back at the hotel. You think people can put off opening them until tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Santana replies. “You aren’t supposed to know this, but all of those under the tree are for you, and we’re taking you out to dinner tomorrow night to celebrate.”

“Oh, goody. Gives me time to wrap mine, then. Did you spend Christmas with your parents?”

“Mm hmm,” Santana hums. “We all carpooled back to Lima on Christmas Eve. It’s not a terrible drive, but Indiana’s really boring. And smelly. But my parents are good, Judy’s good, Rachel’s dads are good. Even said hi to the in-laws.” Santana smiles triumphantly at the way Brittany blushes.

“You’re such a dork,” Brittany laughs, kicking her heels lightly into Santana’s lap.

“The best one,” Santana confirms. “Anyway, we should probably go before you pass out on me.”

“Okay.”

“Let me just grab your present from across the hall and then we can jet.”

Brittany nods and throws an arm over her eyes, resting until Santana gets back.

“You guys taking off?” a voice sounds from above her.

“Uh huh. Sorry to kill the party.”

Quinn laughs. “Pretty sad party; you’re already half-asleep on the couch.”

“I could get up if I wanted to,” Brittany mumbles.

“Oh really?”

“Yup. Absolutely. Just don’t want to.”

“Then how do you plan on getting back to your hotel?”

“I’ll carry her,” Santana chimes in.

“San, you can’t carry me. That’d be like a cat trying to carry a Golden Retriever.”

“I’m a very determined cat. Hang on, are you calling me short?”

“Vertically challenged?”

“Because _Rachel_ is short. I’m normal height.”

“Of course you are, sweetie.”

“Oh my god, go have sex already,” Quinn complains.

“Fine,” Santana huffs. Brittany starts to laugh, but it’s cut off with a yelp as Santana picks her up and slings her over her shoulder. “I can totally carry you,” she says as they exit to the sound of everyone laughing.

Brittany won’t tell everyone that Santana dropped her the second she closed Quinn’s door. Sometimes Santana totally deserves her badass reputation.

/

“We could just go right to sleep,” Brittany offers. “You look tired, too.” She makes sure the hotel room door is locked behind them, and Santana is right there in front of her when she turns around. “Or…we could _not_ ,” Brittany amends.

Santana shakes her head, smiles tenderly, tips up to kiss Brittany. Her lips are too soft, nothing like the crackle in her voice that comes after a night of singing too loudly. Her hands swipe patterns on Brittany’s hips with the barest of touches.

“I missed you in a sexy way,” Santana whispers, “but mostly I missed you like this.”

There’s a lump in Brittany’s throat the size of Texas, and she loves every part of it.

“Can I give you your present now?” Santana asks.

“Sure,” Brittany nods.

“Okay.” She grabs a small package from her bag and sits on the bed, patting the space in front of her for Brittany to join. “Close your eyes,” she says when she settles down.

“Do I really need to?” Brittany asks. “I mean, I can totally tell it’s a book.”

“Yeah but this book has a little bit of explanation to it, so you need to let me say stuff before you open it.”

“Okay,” Brittany agrees.

“Okay.” She feels Santana drop the book into her hands. “First part of this story is that I was pretty down when you started touring. I won’t go into more detail because you know, and it doesn’t matter anymore; you’re here. So anyway, I called Quinn and she did the best thing for me because she let me talk to Beth. And Beth asked me if you and I would read her _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ on Christmas, and it broke my heart to tell her that probably wasn’t going to happen because of the tour and how I was moping like crazy.”

“This story is really long,” Brittany playfully whines. “Better be a good book.”

“Shush; it is, I promise. Anyway, I promised Beth I’d read her another book, one of my very favorite books, only I didn’t know which one it was until Quinn and I were walking around town a couple weeks ago. She showed me this tiny bookstore she goes to—has a lot of out-of-print stuff, that kind of place—and I found this. And I remembered you told me once that it was your favorite, and I had to buy it because every time I read it I fall in love with you all over again. You can open it now,” Santana finishes. Brittany can practically feel her voice bouncing.

Brittany opens her eyes and looks down at the book in plain red wrapping paper. “I can open it? No more explanations?”

“Nope, no more,” Santana says, shaking her head. “Well, except it’s not a first edition but it’s from one of the earlier printings.”

“Okay.” Brittany slides a finger under a piece of tape and pops it off.

“But it is in pretty good condition.”

“Okay.” She does the same to the tape on the other side.

“Britt?”

“Do you want me to open this or not, San?” Brittany huffs, only a little annoyed.

But Santana just smiles until Brittany’s smiling, too. “I love you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry”—she finally takes the paper off, and the present inside makes her gasp—“oh, _Santana_. Merry Christmas.”

She stares at it for a long time, the book with the blond boy on the cover. Its dust jacket is slightly torn, yellowed from age. The colors are duller than she’s used to; he stands on a planet not as grey as the one on her copy. His sky is white, not blue, and the stars are marigold instead of bright yellow. But Brittany loves it anyway, because it has roses and foxes and a very wise little prince.

(Brittany remembers the very first time she read this with Santana. It was right after she broke up with Artie but before she found Santana for real, so she was pretty sad. Santana had noticed and asked her what was wrong, and Brittany mumbled that maybe the fox had it wrong, that maybe it wasn’t worth it to tame someone because everyone always ended up leaving. _Look at us, San_ , she’d said. _What good is it if we can’t even make us work?_ And Santana closed the book quietly, took Brittany’s hands and tipped her head up by her chin. _You have done me good,_ she had said, in confident, measured words, _because of the color of the wheat fields_. She shook Brittany’s hair for emphasis, and then Santana kissed her.

Brittany supposes they’ve been tamed ever since.)

“Thank you, Santana,” she whispers, running a hand reverently over the cover. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought maybe we could read it to Beth while we’re both here. You know, a chapter a night or something, if we have the time. It isn’t a very long book. And the next time we’re all in Lima, you could give her your other copy.”

“That sounds great,” Brittany whispers, her voice too busy feeling things to process many words. She turns a pair of watery eyes onto Santana. “That sounds really great, San.”

Santana’s eyes look all wet, too. “Cool,” she sighs. “Because, you know, this is the kind of book that changes lives.”

“Yeah, I remember.” She laughs at the memory, wiping tears away with a finger. “Man, my present isn’t as awesome as yours.”

“You don’t need to impress me, Britt. I love you even if you never spend enough money on me.” Santana flashes a cocky grin.

Brittany just shakes her head and hands Santana a small box. “I bought one for me, too,” she explains as Santana opens it, revealing a Flip camera. “I thought, you know, since I’m going to all these places around the world, and you’re working with Quinn and Rachel on the coolest, most perfect project ever, that we could take little videos for each other. I mean, sometimes Skype isn’t enough and Skype isn’t going to show you how awesome Australia is, or how many beautiful places I wanna take you back to someday.”

“That’s perfect, Britt,” Santana smiles.

“And there’s a part two.”

“A part two?” Santana quirks an eyebrow. “I thought you said your gift wasn’t as awesome. Two-parters are always the best.”

“Yeah, and this one is pretty great. I thought of it on the plane ride here.”

“…Wanky?”

Brittany throws _The Little Prince_ gently onto the desk chair. “You’ll want to move that out of the way,” she says, pointing to Santana’s camera.

“Definitely wanky,” Santana smirks. She packs it back in its box and drops it on the floor next to the nightstand.

“Remember how I said I had plans for you later?” Brittany purrs as she crawls closer to Santana, forcing her to lie back on the bed.

“Yeah,” Santana grins.

“Welcome to them,” Brittany murmurs, pressing her body fully onto Santana’s. God, she’s missed being this close, close enough so that she can feel the places Santana’s skin heats up from her touch. She can feel the goosebumps as they form on Santana’s neck under Brittany’s very attentive mouth. She can feel Santana’s stomach as she breathes, how it keeps contracting every time she kisses that one spot under Santana’s chin. And she can definitely feel Santana’s mouth, she can feel her lips and her tongue; she can feel everything else that’s in there too, things like lust and sadness and yearning and an infinite supply of love.

Brittany drags her nails under Santana’s top, relishes the guttural moan she gets in return. She smiles as Santana’s hands come up almost immediately to rid Brittany of her shirt. Brittany repays the favor, pulling it over Santana’s head and grinning at Santana’s bra. She’s certainly dressed for the occasion, black and lacy. It’s flattering, even if it isn’t totally necessary. Brittany would have sex with Santana if she were wearing a bear suit.

“How lucky did you think you were going to get tonight?” Brittany teases, dipping her head to kiss the skin between Santana’s breasts.

“Pretty lucky,” Santana pants.

Brittany unclasps Santana’s bra. “Good guess,” she smirks. She takes a moment just to look, to let her eyes really absorb Santana’s beauty. Santana is perfect. It’s been too long since Brittany was last reminded of that. Almost six months is way too long to go without touching what is, in Brittany’s opinion, the greatest set of tits anywhere in the world. She circles a nipple with her tongue, sucking greedily at Santana’s skin.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Santana hisses, squirming. “Shit…”

Brittany can feel Santana’s skin buzzing under her mouth, like there are a million bees right underneath, reacting to every kiss and lick. It’s a pretty awesome feeling, so Brittany doesn’t really see a reason to stop.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Santana huffs, “but it took you an entire plane ride to decide to fuck me?”

“Oh!” Brittany pops her head up. “No, I forgot the best part!” She gets off the bed and ruffles through her bag, deaf to any of Santana’s objections. She grabs her props and holds them behind her back as she flounces onto the bed.

“Before I explain anything, you have to agree to do whatever I say,” Brittany explains.

“Does it involve having sex?”

Brittany smiles. “Yes.”

“I will do whatever you say,” Santana echoes.

“Good. You have to be naked for this.” Brittany waits, raising her eyebrows as Santana starts stripping off her jeans and underwear. When she’s completely nude, Brittany brings her hands forward, laying out a black tie and one of those eye masks you get in airplane travel kits.

Santana crinkles her brow, dubious. “This was worth interrupting a very satisfying night?”

“Totally,” Brittany nods. She slips the sleep mask over Santana’s eyes. “See, I know it’s really tough being away from each other. And it sucks when I’m craving you at night but all I have is me, and I have to make do with imagining. And I thought”—she pulls Santana’s hands toward her, tying them together with the necktie—“that I could give you a little something to remember me by when I go back on the road again.”

“Is this silk?” Santana interrupts.

Brittany shrugs, even though Santana can’t see. “I didn’t want it to chafe.”

“Okay,” Santana laughs. “So…”

“So,” Brittany continues, “I wanted to give you something so you didn’t have to imagine.” She guides Santana back toward the pillows. “You know, when I’m gone again and you can’t touch me so you touch yourself _thinking_ about me”—Brittany kisses the hollow of Santana’s neck and hums against her skin as Santana’s mouth drops open—“and all you have to rely on are fantasies”—she moves upward, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses under Santana’s jaw—“and they’re never enough, I thought that you could have this”—she nibbles on Santana’s earlobe—“the memory of what it’s like to be fucked when you can’t see me.”

“ _Dios mio,_ Britt,” Santana gasps.

“You don’t know when I’ll touch you,” Brittany says, walking her fingers up Santana’s stomach, between her breasts, tangling them in her hair. “You don’t know _where_ I’ll touch you.” She hesitates, watching Santana tense in anticipation, before blowing a cool stream of air above Santana’s hips. “Or even if I will at all.”

“Brittany…” Santana whines.

“Yes?” Brittany waits for Santana to say something, but she’s having a hard enough time breathing, so. She slides her hand out of Santana’s hair and travels lower, making sure to stay far enough above Santana’s body that she can’t feel anything. She comes to rest as high on Santana’s thigh as she can get and still call it part of her leg. She flicks a finger out, teasing, testing, and she smiles. It’s a good thing to know that she’s been away for six months and still she comes back to rivers of Santana.

She pauses one moment longer, watching Santana and trying to come up with a word more intense than ‘writhing’, and then she slides a finger over Santana’s wetness.

“Fuck,” Santana moans. “Britt, don’t—”

“Don’t? Okay.” She wipes her finger on the inside of Santana’s thigh, giggling as Santana’s hips buck involuntarily.

“I swear to God— _fuck_.”

(Santana should have waited just a little longer before saying anything. If she had, she might have felt Brittany’s breath between her legs, and she might have anticipated Brittany’s mouth.

But this way is fun, too.)

Every part of her wants to overwhelm Santana, find every sweet spot at once and just send her into overload because she’s missed this so much. But tonight is about touch, about sense, about how we forget a lot that feeling is physical too, and Brittany wants Santana to feel everything. So she spreads Santana’s legs, centers herself, and reacquaints her tongue and mouth with every inch of Santana.

Long, languid licks—that’s the way to go tonight. Brittany Pierce has always been a dedicated person, and she’s been dedicated to one person for almost as long as always. Forever is more than just a forwards thing. Forever is backwards, too. When Brittany says that she’s loved Santana forever, she really means that there’s been something in her since birth telling her to love Santana. Every life she’s had before this one, and every life she’ll have after it, they’re all Santana.

Everything is always, has always been, and will always be Santana, and Santana is everything.

So Brittany licks and sucks until Santana forgets what words are, and then she finds her clit with strong fingers and untangles every knot in Santana’s body—on the outside, on the inside, even the ones Santana thought were too taut to ever come undone. And Brittany stays there as Santana comes down, kisses her once, twice, kisses her way up Santana’s body, finding hips and wrists and elbows and shoulders, until she settles on a very satisfied pair of lips. And she closes her eyes and kisses Santana again (because she is beautiful; because she can; because she should), and Brittany finishes everything with a quiet, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Santana whispers back, her voice hoarse and crackly. “Except I think if you love me any more than that, you might kill me.”

Brittany props her head up on her hand. “Well, that would be very unfortunate. Then no one would be left to love me.”

Santana’s lips curl in a wicked smirk and Brittany doesn’t even need to see her eyes to know what they look like.

“Well, on that subject,” Santana purrs, “you are going to pay so bad when I get my hands free.”

“Why do you think I tied you up in the first place?”

Brittany is an _excellent_ strategist.

/

(It’s the hours after that Brittany really cherishes, when she curls against Santana and her arms are outside the covers so her back is cold. Santana sleeps with soft, even breaths, and she smells like memories; like feelings; like safety.

There is a chill outside. It frosts the windows and rattles the glass, and there is a draft slowly creeping its way into the room. The night is cold and dark, but Brittany is safe with Santana, like hugging the sun, and she is warm.)

/

She wakes up the next morning to happy brown eyes.

“How come I always wake up first the night after some really extraordinary sex?”

Brittany smiles. “Because you fall asleep first.” She shrugs. “I’m just that good.”

Santana smirks and rolls into her until she’s got Brittany pinned. “I dunno,” she challenges, “you might have to show me again.”

“I can do that,” Brittany promises.

(She doesn’t _have_ to prove herself. But that doesn’t mean she won’t.)

/

“You said you’d help, San. You’re being a big nuisance.”

“Oh, you’re just not willing to have a little fun.”

“Wrapping presents is serious stuff. How can it be Christmas if you don’t have lots of paper to tear apart?”

“Britt, Christmas was four days ago.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, San. Now put down some tape before I lose my balance.”

“How did you even manage to fit this in your suitcase?”

“You know how you always say my bag looks like a tumor when I overstuff it?”

“Yeah.”

“This time it looked like two of them. No, stop, this is not the time for kisses! You’re going to make us late!”

They get to Quinn’s place two hours after they said they would, which is actually an improvement. Last year they didn’t even exchange presents until the 26th.

But they come carrying bundles of goodies, and Brittany made sure to tuck _The Little Prince_ into Santana’s purse. They won’t have time to read to Beth after dinner, but Brittany is pretty sure they can squeeze in a few chapters before they leave.

Quinn is the one to meet them at the door. She smiles at Brittany’s windswept hair, laughs at Santana’s five layers of scarves, and rolls her eyes at the giant shopping bag of presents.

“I knew you couldn’t keep a secret, Santana,” Quinn complains.

“No, I just brought these because I wanted to!” Brittany interrupts. “They totally don’t have anything to do with that pile under the tree that I know nothing about.” She gives Quinn an exaggerated wink.

“Oh, just come in already,” Quinn laughs.

“Does the restaurant we’re going to have steak, Quinn? Because I could totally go for some celebratory steak.”

Quinn just shakes her head. “Yes, it has steak. You and Noah, the Amazing Captain Meat, are going to be very happy tonight.”

“Captain Meat, huh?” Santana smirks.

Puck pokes his head out from the hallway. “Did I hear my name?” he grins.

“Hey, Puck,” Brittany says. “Where’s Beth?”

“She was just about to help me put together a very complex puzzle,” he says, shaking a box full of pieces the size of postcards. “But I think she can spare a little time for you.”

A lot of time, as it turns out, because she jumps into Brittany’s arms talking and doesn’t stop for forty five minutes. The life of a six-year-old is pretty involved.

“Mommy said you were dancing with Lady Gaga,” Beth chirps from Brittany’s lap. “Are you done now?”

“Only for a little bit,” Brittany answers. “And then we’ve got more places to go.”

“What kind of places?”

“ _All_ of them. France and Russia and Australia and Africa—”

“Africa! Will you see any elephants?” Beth turns around quickly, almost falling off the couch.

“I might,” Brittany laughs. “Why, do you like elephants?”

“They’re my favorite,” Beth nods, playing with the hem of Brittany’s shirt. “Did you know that some elephants can paint?”

“They can? Well, I bet your paintings are totally better,” Brittany says, tickling Beth’s stomach.

Beth cackles and lets them both fall to the floor. “Britt! That tickles!” she shrieks.

“It’s supposed to!” Brittany yells back.

“And I thought there was only one six-year-old in this house,” Quinn quips from the doorway.

“Please, this is mature for Brittany,” Santana teases.

Brittany stops tickling Beth and sits up. “Hey, I can totally be mature if I want to.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. In fact…” She looks down at Beth. “Santana told me that she promised you she’d read you a book. Has she done that yet?”

Beth shakes her head, her hair gathering static against the carpet. “Nuh uh.”

Brittany drops her mouth open in mock disgust and gapes at Santana. “How rude of her. I think I can fix that, though.”

Beth pushes herself up off the floor, sitting up excitedly. “Really?”

“Yep,” Brittany nods. “Santana found this book and we thought we’d read it with you. Together. It’s one of our favorites.”

“Really?”

“Really, really,” Brittany answers. She grabs the book and sits back on the couch, leaving a space in between her and Santana for Beth to fill.

“What’s it about?” Beth asks as she settles in.

“Well, it’s about a boy with a very cranky rose who goes on a lot of adventures. It’s kind of long though, so we won’t read it all today.”

“Yeah, you and Santana can switch,” Beth decides. “Can I hold it?”

“Sure.” Brittany creaks the book open to the first chapter and sets it on Beth’s lap. “Who do you want to start?”

Beth looks between the two of them, sizing them up. “You start, Big B.”

“Me?” Brittany asks, pointing to herself for clarification.

“Yeah, you!”

Santana makes eye contact over Beth’s shoulder. “She’s Little B, you’re Big B,” she explains.

Brittany melts a little inside. Outside, she just smiles.

“Awesome. I like that—Big B,” she tests. She looks down and nudges Beth. “It sounds kinda British, huh? Big B. Big Bee. Bigby Bigby Bigby Bigby…”

Beth’s chuckle sounds like magic. “Britt, you’re supposed to be reading!”

“Ah, yes,” she nods seriously, sufficiently scolded. “Okay, here we go.” She clears her throat, just in case. “Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book…”

By the beginning of chapter two, Quinn is listening from the floor, and everyone groans when Brittany stops after chapter three.

/

There are two people ripping open presents, and one of them is not Beth. Brittany can’t help the Christmas zeal she gets every year. Santana laughs and Puck makes fun of her, but she doesn’t care because she’s got a nice leather jacket from Quinn and Puck; about ten pounds of chocolate from Mike; and a super deluxe version of the latest Britney Spears CD, with a homemade booklet of annotations from Rachel.

(Brittany frowns until she opens up the booklet and sees that the notes are really just little memories, things like “I played this one last week and Santana laughed like that time when Kurt face-planted into that bucket of paint when we were working on the _Trek-ett_ set.”

Brittany remembers that play— _The Extraordinary Life of Samuel Trek-ett_. Rachel was smack in the middle of her reinvention phase, and she thought it would be a good idea to audition for a play that imagined Samuel Beckett’s life as if he were plagued by the ghosts of the _Enterprise_ crew.

Brittany is pretty sure that every theater major is allowed one really horrible role on their résumé.)

Dinner is loud and delicious, like any good dinner with friends should be. Rachel laughs a little louder with every glass of wine she drinks, and Mike gets a little meaner. Not the kind of mean that hurts, just the kind where his zingers have a little more bite to them. He kind of reminds Brittany of how Quinn and Santana joke with each other. If she’d known that alcohol brought out the bitch in him, she’d have gotten him drunk in high school and told him to try out for the Cheerios. Sue would have liked it.

Santana fidgets any time Quinn and Rachel bring up the play. Puck too, but Brittany knows that he’s got a really tiny bladder for such a solid guy, so maybe he just has to pee a lot. But they keep conversation light and nostalgic, reminiscing about the best times from high school and some of the worst that, now that they’re grown up and mostly well-adjusted, are hilarious in hindsight.

Santana and Brittany wave goodbye to the others, heading once again for the hotel. Brittany knows that Santana doesn’t like sleeping in hotels, but they’ve only got these few weeks together. She’ll live.

Santana flops on Brittany’s bed and finds a rerun of _Friends_.

“Quinn and Puck need a guest room,” Brittany says as she snuggles into Santana’s side.

“Quinn and Puck need more money and a bigger place for that,” Santana replies.

“Yeah,” Brittany agrees, laughing. “I hope the play helps with that.” Santana doesn’t say anything, but she does turn the volume on the TV a little higher. “How come you haven’t said yes yet?” Brittany asks.

“It’s a big commitment,” Santana deflects.

“You don’t have anything else going on. I mean, you can always shift around your hours at the bar, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So you could totally do it, and you’d be great.” Brittany shrugs. “I mean, Quinn and Rachel have jobs, too. It’s not like you’d be slowing them down or anything.”

“I know, I just—they’re all ready to give it to me, just completely hand it over, no questions asked.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It just feels a little too perfect.”

“Ah, I see. You’ve forgotten what perfection felt like, me being on tour and all,” Brittany jokes.

Santana kisses Brittany’s hair, lingering a little longer than if she were joking, too. “I just keep thinking about what happens when this play gets big, you know? Because it will, I think. Quinn is really talented and Rachel is actually pretty damn resourceful. They’re this great team and even Mike is already building a name for himself, and then there’s me. Can you imagine the articles they’d write about the show? _Budding playwright Quinn Fabray_ and _triple threat Rachel Berry_ …and their high school friend, Santana Lopez.”

“San, you’re not just their friend. You’ve got some cred too, you know. You’re friends with Jay and I know he respects you and he’s a pretty big name in LA. I’m sure he knows people in New York, too.” Brittany slides under the covers and pulls the blanket over Santana, too. “It’s all about building a name within the industry, and you’re working on it. Like, sure, no one going to see the play is going to know who you are. But they won’t know Rachel or Quinn or Mike either.”

“Sounds like you’ve been practicing that for a while.” Brittany can hear the smile in Santana’s voice.

“No, I’ve just been around a lot of rock stars for the past couple of months. I know stuff.”

“Okay, so let’s say I accept the part and the show gets funded. That puts me in Chicago for a pretty long time.”

“I could live in Chicago.”

Santana draws a deep breath. “That’s not the point, Britt. The point is that I don’t want to make a huge decision for both of us just because I want to be in a play.”

“You wouldn’t be making a huge decision, though.”

“What, you wouldn’t move to Chicago with me? Because I think we’ve proven that we don’t do long-distance very well.”

“Well, you kind of forced my hand with that.”

“I didn’t force you to go on tour, Brittany.”

“I couldn’t have stayed either, San.”

Santana shifts a little away from Brittany. “So basically if this musical happens, I’m stuck in Chicago rooming with Rachel, is what you’re saying.”

Brittany shakes her head. “C’mon, San. You know that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that moving here—which I will totally do when the play starts—isn’t a huge decision to me. We’re in this together, Santana, all the time. I go where you go. So it isn’t a decision for me to move here. It’s just a fact.”

“Things like this just need to be thought over. A lot.”

“What, we’re not thinking right now?” Brittany peeks up to see if Santana’s smiling. She isn’t. “San, this isn’t about you living in Chicago or worrying about the play. You’d be great. You know it; I know it; Quinn and Rachel certainly know it. But you’re afraid.”

“No, I’m not,” Santana protests.

“I think you are, a little bit. You don’t like big change, but you’re not made for staying the same, either. Sometimes you just need to take a risk, sweetie.”

“I’m not made for living like you either, Britt. There’s a difference between taking a risk and being impulsive.”

“I’m not impulsive.”

“Yes, you are. You took the job in California because you wanted it, and you did the same for the tour. That’s what impulsive means.”

“I know what it means, Santana,” Brittany grumbles. “I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Anyway, you didn’t complain about California when we moved.”

“Because it was good for me, too. I needed it just as much as you did. I went with you because I love you and I had enough time to think about it. You can’t have it both ways, Britt. You have all these things that you want to do; I get it. But you have me, too. You have other people to think about before you do stuff.”

“If I spent as much time thinking about things as you do, I’d never get anything done.”

“Ouch,” Santana laughs bitterly.

Brittany sighs. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want you stuck being boring when you could be great.” She turns off the TV and sits up, turning Santana’s head so she has no choice but to look at her. “Because you could, San. You could be really, _really_ great. The kind of great that Rachel thinks she is?” She pokes Santana playfully in the shoulder. “You’re already it. You just need to let yourself feel it.” Santana looks away, her eyes watering. “If you really want to do the play, why don’t you just audition?”

Santana rolls her eyes, hiding a sniffle with sarcasm. “It wouldn’t work. They’d just say yes anyway.”

“Rachel wouldn’t. You know she’d cut you if it didn’t go right.”

“Gee, thanks, Britt,” Santana smiles. 

Brittany shoves her shoulder. “You know what I mean, you dork. You wanna take this seriously? Give them the chance to take _you_ seriously.”

Santana finally nods. “Okay. But I’m not auditioning until you leave. I don’t want to think about anything but you for the next three weeks.”

“Can I help you pick a song?”

“Actually, I think I’ve got some ideas already.”

Brittany smiles, big and knowing. “You were thinking about auditioning anyway, weren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Santana blushes.

“You big sneak.” Brittany laughs and burrows herself back under the covers and closer to Santana.

“You wanna go to sleep, baby?” Santana murmurs.

“Ooh, no, this is the lobster episode.”

Brittany makes Santana wait until the prom tape is completely done before she can kiss her. It’s totally worth it.

* * *

 

True to her word, Santana won’t talk about the play with anyone. She takes a leave of absence from her ‘emotional editing,’ preferring to let Quinn and Rachel work on their own. She and Brittany spend a lot of time walking around the city, doing all the stereotypical tourist things they didn’t have time for during senior year Nationals. They visit the Bean and the Sears Tower, walk around downtown and take a million annoying pictures. Brittany drags Santana to all of the museums, because Chicago has a really cool collection of planets and fish and dinosaurs, and Santana retaliates with the Art Institute.

(Brittany’s never really liked art museums. The pictures don’t move and you can’t touch them, so where’s the fun?)

It’s a relaxed couple of weeks, in its own way. Everyone has weird work schedules, so Brittany doesn’t really get a chance to hang out with all of them at once. She has Rachel and Santana in the mornings and Quinn and Puck at night. Mike is kind of always there; Brittany doesn’t really know what he does. They all flit in and out of Quinn’s apartment. Brittany stays for Rachel’s rants about the music; she watches Quinn scribble more than she keeps. Sometimes she wanders over to Mike’s place and watches him dance.  He’s always gotten the quirk of swing better than her. It’s technical and loose at the same time, which Brittany always found challenging. She likes to dance so hard she can feel it in her bones. Swing and jazz, they’re more nuanced than that.

She tries to visit Santana at work as much as she can. The bar is nice—nothing as warm as Lady Day’s, but that was mostly about the people anyway. It isn’t a singing bar either, so Brittany misses that, too. It’s okay though, because Santana sings to her at night. She’s got Brittany’s spare room key and even though Brittany is mostly asleep when Santana comes in, Santana still curls up next to her and hums a lullaby. It always wakes her up and it’s always the same song, but it reminds her of cool California nights. It reminds her of home.

Beth is really good at calming them down, too. She loves _The Little Prince_ just as much as Brittany does, only she loves it for completely different reasons. She makes Santana read the bit about the elephants at least three times, and she asks a lot of questions about the stars.

(Brittany tries not to get sad when she answers them. Stars are beautiful and magnificent and full of wonder, but they’re a little bit sad, too. It’s the best explanation Brittany can give for why she knows Santana will be famous someday).

A week before she has to leave, Brittany drags Mike ring shopping with her. She’d take Quinn or Rachel—and Mike looks like he wants her to—but they couldn’t keep a secret if they tried. Rachel was born to talk and Quinn gets surprisingly giddy. (Beth has to get it from somewhere.)

So she and Mike visit every jewelry store in the city, or at least as many as they can manage in one day. Brittany laughs in every one because they assume Mike is buying her a ring, and they give him the weirdest looks. Like it’s the worst thing in the world that a bride might pick out her own wedding ring. If that happened, women would get their perfect rings on the first try and save their fiancées the stress of eating their weight in anxiety-doughnuts.

(It’s totally a thing. Puck gained about five pounds when Beth was born and again when she got all her shots and then also when she started school. The Dunkin Donuts in Lima has a breakfast special named after him.)

With every city Brittany visits, she gets a little more anxious about buying Santana a ring. She knows they won’t be able to get married for at least another year and a half, but Brittany feels a sense of urgency to get it now. Santana had her ring picked out for weeks, probably months (because Brittany knows that Santana likes to think things over, sometimes for too long.) She has seven days left with Santana and after that it’s more than a year of nothing.

So Mike accompanies her through ring shop after ring shop, failure after failure, and when Brittany doesn’t find it, he buys her a giant helping of her favorite frozen yogurt. Mike doesn’t fit with the girls like Kurt does, and he isn’t really one of the boys either, but he speaks the language of friends, and that language is always food. Brittany has always thought that the phrase ‘comfort food’ was redundant, because food is inherently a comfort. It’s like saying ‘orange orange’ or ‘red blood.’ But whatever; Mike doesn’t ask her if she wants comfort food. He just buys it for her and Brittany is reassured.

Santana sneaks into bed a little earlier than usual that night. Brittany doesn’t even pretend to be asleep this time. She just waits for Santana to settle in (big spoon tonight, like she knows Brittany needs it).

“Hi, pretty,” she breathes sleepily, turning around in Santana’s embrace.

Santana smiles instantly. “Hey there, beautiful. You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“I tried.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Sort of, yeah.” (Are they bad dreams if you’re worried about your best dreams not coming true? Brittany doesn’t know, so she just says yes.) “But I’m better now that you’re here.”

Santana kisses her softly. “Me, too.” She exhales and Brittany can smell a hint of cigarettes on her breath. Santana blames it on the city ( _the Chicago cold just screams for a smoke, baby_ ), but Brittany knows it’s her way of dealing with the distance. “Did you have a good day?” Santana asks quietly.

Brittany shrugs. “It was okay. Mike and I went shopping, but I didn’t find anything.”

“You wanna go again tomorrow? I start work a little later than usual.”

“No, thanks,” Brittany answers, shaking her head. “I just wanna be lazy with you. I can go shopping any time.”

“Okay.” Santana dips her hands underneath the covers and threads them around Brittany’s waist, pulling her closer. She smells like winter and stale beer and a fading hint of leather. It transports Brittany back to high school—because California doesn’t get this kind of cold—back to accidentally falling asleep in the living room in front of Santana’s giant fireplace; back to late-night snowball fights that Brittany always won; back to Santana’s special kind of warmth that always teetered on too much.

“San?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“You know the song you’re going to audition with, right?”

Santana hesitates just a little bit. “Yeah, I think so.”

Brittany fiddles with a strand of Santana’s hair. “Will you sing it for me? I always sleep better when you sing.”

“It’s kind of a sad song,” Santana mumbles. “Well, I mean, it’s really sad.”

“Then it’s perfect, right?”

“I hope so.”

Brittany just waits. Santana was right—it is sad, and Brittany cries.

But it’s perfect, too.

/

(Six days left and Brittany doesn’t think about the airport. She stops sleeping at the hotel and makes Rachel scooch over on her bed. Sometimes she stays at Mike’s.

Six days, five days, four days—they’re too important to waste on thin blankets and basic cable. These days are meant for friends.

Day three is meant for Beth. They finish _The Little Prince_ and Brittany cries because she always does and Santana looks like she’s trying to hold back tears, and Beth just hugs them both and thanks them. She rushes over to her makeshift desk—really just a plastic table with flimsy drawers, but she loves it—and pulls out yellow construction paper. They cut out four stars: one for Beth, one for Brittany, one for Santana, and one with a rose. (Beth insists on drawing the rose with a smile.) Santana sits Beth on her shoulders and stretches so Beth can tape them to her wall. Not for the first time, Brittany thinks Quinn must be magic.

Days two and one are meant for Santana and Brittany doesn’t want to talk about it.)

/

She leaves on a Friday. She’ll meet up with Gavin in LA before heading to Russia, but Brittany isn’t thinking about where she’s going. She’s thinking about the dirty snow and blustering winds and friendly smiles she’s leaving behind.

(She isn’t thinking about Santana. If she thinks about Santana, she’ll never get on the plane. This is even harder the second time around.)

She can’t help thinking about Santana though, because she’s sulking in the front seat, looking out the window the whole time and definitely not at Quinn. And Quinn keeps making eyes at Brittany in the rearview mirror, but Brittany can’t do anything except search for Santana’s hand through the seat.

More than anything, Brittany hates O’Hare International Airport and the flood of TSA agents that patrol it, because they’re the ones preventing Santana from following her all the way to the gate. Brittany remembers before everything got crazy, she used to go with her mom to pick up her dad from business trips. He always caught night flights and Brittany and her sister would get in their pajamas, slippers and everything, toting pillows and portraits of their dad drawn in crayon, and they would play Hangman waiting for him at the gate, or sometimes it was Tic-Tac-Toe or Dots. But they would always stop when the passengers started coming off the plane, and they were the first people her dad hugged when he showed up dragging his too-small suitcase.

Brittany wants that today, only in reverse. She wants to walk through security with Santana; get a terrible breakfast of a Starbucks frapp and a muffin with Santana; people-watch with Santana; play cards at the gate with Santana. And she wants Santana’s lips to be the last things she touches before she gets on the plane because then the memory will last longer. She wants to kiss Santana until they call final boarding just because she can.

But the country is paranoid and lovers all over are paying for it. And so instead she walks through the parking garage with Santana and Quinn. She waits in the check-in line with Santana and Quinn, and she stops before security to say goodbye to Santana and Quinn.

Brittany hugs Quinn first, tells her to say goodbye to Beth and everyone else, to tell Rachel that the play is going to be amazing, to take care of Santana when she gets sad. ( _Because she will get sad, Quinn, you know that. And she just needs little reminders sometimes._ ) Quinn nods like she knows it all already, and she does. But she also knows that Brittany needs some time to stall, so.

Santana won’t look at her for more than a second or two, flicking her eyes up as if she’s making sure that Brittany is really leaving.

“Hey,” Brittany says, tucking a finger under Santana’s chin and lifting it. “It’s okay, San.”

“I know,” Santana sniffs.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I know.” She sniffs again.

“And after that, we’re getting married.”

(This time Santana sobs a little.)

“I know,” she chokes, her voice thick and blocked. She wraps her arms around Brittany and just stands there, waiting. “I’m sorry,” she rasps.

Brittany kisses the top of Santana’s head. “For what?”

“For not seeing you off like this the last time. For being a jerk about this whole thing. You’re amazing, Britt.” She leans her head back and looks at Brittany before kissing her. (Lightly. The hard part is still coming.) “I never thought I’d be jealous of Lady Gaga, but I totally am.”

Brittany laughs. “Well, I never thought I’d say this either, but Lady Gaga has nothing on you.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel loved, Britt.” Santana steps back and wipes her eyes, collecting herself. “You have everything? Passport, tour schedule, your book?”

“Check, check, and check,” Brittany confirms, patting her bag.

“And I’ve got your eyemask and one _very_ dashing black silk tie,” Santana winks. “I think that means you’re all set.”

“Right,” Brittany nods.

“Say hi to Gavin, okay?”

Brittany nods again. It’s an easy thing to do when she can’t really think of anything else. “Absolutely.”

“Okay. Go show the world who Brittany Pierce is.” Santana steps closer to Brittany and latches onto the collar of her jacket, pulling her close again. “Because I already know her pretty well,” she continues, “and I think the rest of the world deserves to love her at least half as much as I do.”

Brittany told herself she wouldn’t cry. She lied.

“I love you too, San. More than anything.”

Santana closes the distance and kisses her, and Brittany feels the anxiety inside her chest explode. Brittany has been kissed before, a lot of times. But there are kisses and then there are experiences. Kissing Santana right now feels like someone is telling her the secrets of the universe, only they’re in a different language. Brittany doesn’t understand them with words. She understands them with eyelashes and tears and a balloon in her lungs that keeps inflating past the point of safety. She understands them with the gasps she steals from Santana and the way Santana’s hands don’t want to leave her pockets. She understands them with the terrible, aching way they finally have to part.

Brittany knows she’ll be better for understanding later, but right now it hurts like hell.

/

She lands in California without a hitch. Gavin’s flight doesn’t get in for at least twenty minutes, so she sits at the food court by their terminal and waits. She does the things everyone does when they want to look busy—she fiddles with her coat, meticulously hangs her bag on the back of her chair, and checks her phone.

There are no texts or calls from Santana because they promised not to do that, but there is an email. Brittany smiles and shakes her head; Santana always has to say the last word.

It’s a video, taken with Santana’s new camera, and Brittany will watch it eleven times before Gavin finds her.

_“Hey, Britt-Britt. I know we said no texts or calls because that’s sad, but I couldn’t let you leave without saying something. I promise it isn’t sad. I know, I’m still crying, but at least half of these tears are happy. I’m happy for you, Britt. I know you’re going to be more amazing than you already are. It’s hard being away, and sometimes I second-guess the things I know without you here to reassure me. But there are two things I know beyond doubt: one, I was made to love you; and two, I will always believe in you. This year is going to be hard. It’ll suck sometimes and we’ll go a little bit crazy without each other. But we are going to do so many amazing things together, baby. And when you come back you’ll have so many stories and maybe I’ll be on stage, and we’ll get started right away on being amazing. Because you’re it for me, okay? If you get lonely in France or South Africa, or—hell, I don’t know—in Siberia or something, you just take a deep breath and remember that you’ll always have me, and I love you like crazy.”_

The list of things that Brittany knows is a very fluid one. There are a few staples—take your keys with you wherever you go; don’t be mean if you don’t have to be; Santana is allergic to strawberries—and most of the rest just kind of float in and out. Like, sometimes Brittany knows which one is left and which one isn’t. It’s a common mistake.

But there is one constant fact, one thing that doesn’t really belong on her list of things she knows because it’s really something she feels. It isn’t something she knows with her mind. It’s something that sits deep within her gut, permanent and comforting.

(This is what Brittany firmly feels:

As long as she has Santana, anything is possible.)


	12. is your love big enough?

Quinn waits a week before approaching Santana about the musical. She barely sees her, anyway. Santana’s been adopted by Noah and his gang of bros, which is really just Mike and Jeff, one of Noah’s friends from work. It’s funny to watch—Quinn had to pick them up from Santana’s bar the other night and she’s pretty sure she hasn’t seen Mike laugh that much ever. It took a lot of persuading to coax the three boys away from the counter, mostly because watching the four of them interact was fascinating in a way Quinn wasn’t expecting. Santana isn’t butch by any means ( _I love being a woman who loves women, Q_ , she’d once revealed in a fit of openness), but she adopts a certain attitude around the boys and every time Quinn sees it, it’s another reminder that Santana is perfect for this role.

But Quinn lets her work off the sting of saying goodbye to Brittany again. She tells Rachel to suck it up when she storms into Quinn’s apartment, complaining again about how Santana keeps infringing on her side of the bed. She writes and deletes, writes and deletes, and pretends not to notice when Rachel rolls _her_ eyes. Quinn could retaliate and make a comment about how Rachel still doesn’t know what to do with any of Billie’s songs, but that’s become a point of genuine frustration instead of something she can turn into a joke. Quinn might be sarcastic, but she isn’t heartless.

This must be the weird part of being an adult that no amount of college or talks from her mom and Frannie could have prepared her for. She thought she’d had it all figured out, really. Going to college, working, raising a kid, _and_ maintaining a monogamous relationship—she was succeeding where her parents had failed miserably. But take one thing out of that equation, and everything shifts. Without college to fill up her days, Quinn spends more time at the hotel. Noah is still working hard at the bookstore. Rachel fills her days with waitressing (because her managers have determined she can’t handle the stress of busier times) and her nights with music. Quinn doesn’t even know what Santana does in the morning. Sleeps, probably.

But they all have their own little lives and routines. Being an adult, a college graduate, isn’t just about growing up. Quinn’s already grown up. She grew up at sixteen when Beth happened. Now it’s time for her to grow out and, ironically, her version of out looks more like in. Quinn is spending more time with herself than she ever has. She writes alone; she drinks coffee alone; at night, when she can’t sleep, she curls into Noah and contemplates him alone.

It’s when she starts wondering what a grown-up Quinn Fabray might look like without Beth that she decides to pester Santana.

They both have Tuesday nights off, so Quinn prepares her best argument for why Santana should accept this role and knocks on the door to her apartment.

“It’s open!” Rachel calls from inside.

Quinn nudges the door open, leaning her head in before fully crossing through. “Is Santana here?”

Rachel looks up from her perch on the couch, charts and graphs organized on the coffee table, “My Man” playing softly from her iPod. “Yeah,” she answers absently. “She’s been banished to the bedroom.” She straightens her back. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

Quinn chuckles and shuts the door. “Was this a voluntary exile or did you warn her against disturbing the creative process?”

Rachel frowns. “I think a little bit of both. Anyway, what’s up?”

“I think the _creative process_ would be greatly improved if we had a Billie, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“So let’s go get her,” Quinn says, grinning.

Santana is lying on the bed, headphones in and hands folded across her stomach, when they find her.

Quinn pops a bud out as gently as she can. “Sleeping?” she whispers.

Santana jumps about a foot into the air. “The fuck, Q?”

“I’ve got a question for you.”

“And you couldn’t have thought of a better way to ask it?” Santana rips out the other earbud and leans back on her elbows, finally noticing Rachel. “How goes the scoring, Rach? Still horrific?”

“There’s no need to be cruel, Santana,” Rachel says.

“There’s no need to be you, either, but I have to live with that every day.”

Rachel turns to look at Quinn. “You should have let me wake her. She gets grumpy if you disturb her nap.”

“Barely two months living with her and you’ve already got her figured out?” Quinn asks.

Rachel shrugs. “She’s not a very complicated person. And you forget I had a year of college, too.”

“Excuse you,” Santana retorts. Both Rachel and Quinn look at her. “Hi. _She_ is a very complicated person, thanks. _She_ is also still wondering what the fuck was so important you had to wake me up.”

“Rachel and I have hit a block with the play,” Quinn confesses.

“Damn it,” Santana groans. “If you’d waited another two months to bail, Puck’d be paying me a nice five hundred bucks.”

“Noah bet on me?” Quinn screeches.

“Come on, the dude never passes up an opportunity to gamble. Besides, he thought you’d see this all the way through. I gave you guys a year.”

“A year?” Rachel interjects. “Santana, that’s not fair at all. Musicals tend to move slowly; that goal is setting us up for failure. A year is barely enough time to do anything.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Santana quips.

“Stop, stop,” Quinn interrupts. “I do still have a question for you, Santana. Actually,” she says, crossing her arms, “now that you’ve pissed me off, it isn’t a question anymore. We’re not giving up on the musical. We’re stuck because we don’t have a Billie, so just be in our stupid play already.”

Santana’s cheeks flush red and she looks down at her sheets. “No,” she mumbles.

Quinn throws her arms up in frustration. “Why _not_ , Santana; you’d be perf—”

“I mean,” Santana continues, “no, not _yet_. Let me—let me audition for you. I’ll read a scene, I’ll sing a song. Hell, I’d dance if I thought you had any workable choreography. But don’t just give it to me, okay? You really want me to have this, let me do it the real way.”

“You—really?” Quinn splutters. Santana nods.

Rachel’s hands have fluttered somewhere near her eyes. “Santana, you’re going to audition for us?” Santana nods again, this time more slowly. “And I get to _judge you_?!” Rachel squeals.

Santana turns toward Quinn, throwing her a pointed look. “Q…”

“I can handle her, San; don’t worry.”

“Really? Because she’s about to pee on the carpet, Quinn, and this place is already shitty enough as it is. I mean, come _on_.” She swings her arm toward Rachel in an open-palmed gesture. Quinn has to stifle a laugh because Rachel looks like Beth did the first time she saw a movie—eyes wide, almost to the point of tears because all of her senses and emotions are being completely overstimulated.

“Rachel.” Quinn steps between Rachel and Santana. “Go back in the living room and get the space ready for Santana, okay? And just…try not to explode.”

“Or do,” Santana adds as Rachel leaves the room. She makes sure Rachel is well out of earshot before speaking again. “We can do this another time…” she suggests.

But Quinn is quick to kill that idea. She knows how Santana works. “No way, Santana Lopez. You’d back out of it. You’re auditioning now and when I leave this apartment tonight, I better have my Billie.”

“See, that’s the problem, Q. You guys are so set on me having this role anyway. I might as well not even audition.”

“I’m also fine with that,” Quinn replies. Santana just rolls her eyes. “Look, you want the truth? Yeah, we really want you for this. Yeah, we might cast you even if this audition is a total failure—which it _won’t_ be. But more than anything we just want you to see how great you’d be, Santana. It isn’t just that you’re our friend and you’d be passably good. It’s that you’d be phenomenal and you happen to be our friend. So can we just do this?”

Santana coughs and scratches at the back of her neck. “Fine.”

Rachel is scrolling through her music when they walk out, making notes and talking to herself.

“You don’t need to pick anything for me, Rach,” Santana sighs. “I have something prepared.”

“You do?” Quinn and Rachel ask simultaneously.

“I was gonna get to this eventually,” Santana grumbles. “You want the scene or the song first?”

“I didn’t bring any of the script over,” Quinn says. “I can run back and get it…”

Santana shakes her head. “No, let me just do this and I’ll read some other time.” She leans back on her right foot and sighs heavily. “Hi, my name is Santana Lopez; I’ll be auditioning for the role of Billie Holiday.” She sounds positively robotic.

Quinn snorts. “Santana…”

“What will you be singing today, Miss Lopez?” Rachel interrupts, and this time Quinn almost chokes on her laughter.

Santana shoots her a spectacular glare. “‘Love Is a Losing Game’, Amy Winehouse. The demo version,” she clarifies.

Quinn isn’t laughing anymore. Neither is Rachel, and Santana looks like she might faint.

“…That’s okay?” she asks.

Quinn and Rachel nod a little too eagerly.

“Absolutely.”

“Go right ahead.”

Rachel has coached Quinn on how to conduct an audition. Hopefuls get sixteen bars. That’s it, no negotiating, only one second chance if you mess up. It isn’t that they want to be mean, but they have to be picky. This is one big personality test, really.

Anyway, Rachel is usually the one to stop whoever’s singing when they reach their limit. She can feel a song better than Quinn can.

There won’t be any stopping today.

In fact, if Santana can get over her grumpiness, Quinn might ask her to sing a second or third or tenth time. She understands Brittany’s urge to get all of these moments on video because Quinn is absolutely certain this moment can’t be duplicated. Santana will sing the song a thousand times after this, sure. But she won’t feel this again. This song is more than just Santana playing a part. Quinn doesn’t know what it looks like when Santana sings just for Brittany, but she thinks it might be a little like this. Santana’s eyes close when she gets into character; her voice breaks when she thinks of her fiancée, miles away in Russia. (Quinn can see the thought come to rest in her forehead, right in the space between her eyebrows.) Santana’s hands do that thing they always do when she believes what she sings.

Quinn is pretty much done with religion, but she’s ready to be converted right now.

All three of them wipe away tears as the last note fades.

Rachel is the first one to recover. “That was…I can’t wait to see what you do with Billie Holiday, Miss Lopez.” She sing-songs Santana’s name, teasing, but her smile glows with a sincerity that can’t be faked.

Santana smiles and laughs, clearing her throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rachel affirms.

“Cool,” Santana nods, smiling even wider. “That was pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah, you know, not bad,” Quinn shrugs.

“I mean, I sounded great,” Santana continues.

“Yeah, you were great,” Quinn agrees.

“Sublime, even.”

“It was magnificent, Santana.”

“Don’t encourage her, Rachel. She doesn’t need a bigger head.”

“That was probably the greatest audition ever.”

“One more crack like that and you’re buying drinks,” Quinn warns.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to give you anything that might make you forget my transcendent performance.”

“I want your most expensive martini.”

“Okay.”

/

“Babe, you gotta help me with these taxes.”

“I already did mine, Noah,” Quinn mumbles. “Besides, you have over a month to finish them.”

“I know, but I just want to get it out of the way,” he calls back from the kitchen.

“I’m busy,” Quinn answers. “Get Santana to help you; she’s the math whiz.”

Quinn goes back to writing as Noah plods to the bedroom. He has the grace of an elephant sometimes, and she wonders where he picked it up because he certainly wasn’t this loud in high school. Maybe Finn retroactively rubbed off on him.

“It isn’t the math I need help with, Quinn,” he says from the doorway. “I can handle the math fine. Shit, I’ll be all over geometry when Beth needs help.”

“You hate math,” Quinn frowns.

“Yeah, but I love shapes.” Noah waggles his eyebrows, prompting a laugh. There might be a day when she resists his charms, but it isn’t today. “But anyway, I’m fine on the math. It’s the words I don’t always get. They’re just…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know; they’re really confusing.”

Quinn immediately softens and holds out a hand. “They’re not designed to make sense. Show me what you don’t understand.”

He just hands her the packet and sits on the bed. “You know, if you married me this wouldn’t be such a hassle.”

“I know,” Quinn murmurs, absently checking his work.

“We could file jointly and get a crapload of benefits, too.”

“I know.”

“I’m just saying,” he says in a tone that means he isn’t really _just_ saying.

Quinn swivels in her chair to face him. “ _When_ I marry you,” she says, making sure he hears the resolution, “I promise I’ll do all our taxes for the rest of our lives. I just…need a little more time.”

“How much is a little, Quinn?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “I can’t really think about anything but this play right now, Noah. After.”

“After the play.”

“Yes.” She crosses out a number on line six and moves it to line seven. Taxes are stupid.

“And how long is that going to be?”

“I don’t—”

“—know,” he finishes. “Babe, I know you don’t, but when will you? I just wanna know how long I’m gonna have to wait.”

Quinn sighs again. “The play is—”

“The play could take you five years, Quinn. Or you could be done in a month. You can’t just put me to the side because you’ve got a fun new project.”

“I’m not neglecting you, Noah.”

“I think that’s kind of for me to decide,” Noah argues, “and I’ve pretty much decided that you are. I used to come home and tell you about my day or, hell, talk about whatever’s going on with this world even though I pretty much don’t care because I’ve got my girls. But you’re always with Lopez and Berry or they’re over here and I’m stuck making dinner for Beth and watching the fucking _Croods_ five nights a week.”

“Fine, you want a night off? I can give you a night off; I don’t have to talk about Billie all the time.”

Noah laughs bitterly, all cold coffee and soggy fries. “ _I_ don’t want the night off, Quinn. I want _you_ to take the night off. I want you to make time for me. Did you forget that we have your mom’s birthday thing this weekend?”

Quinn closes her eyes. “Shit,” she breathes, hanging her head. “Do you think—?”

“I know you still don’t have the best relationship with your mom, but she’s turning fifty. That’s some pretty big shit. Beth and I will be in the car to Lima on Saturday—really hope you can join us.”

It takes a lot for Quinn not to roll her eyes. Noah turns into a snarky teenager whenever he argues. But Quinn feels really guilty right now, so maybe at least this once he’s right.

“Noah, I—”

He gets up from the bed and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna grab drinks with Jeff, okay? I’ll be back to say goodnight to Beth.”

Quinn opens her mouth, trying to decide whether it’s worth it to say what she really wants to say. It isn’t. “Okay,” she says instead, like Lucy used to do with everyone but Quinn only does with Noah.

“Okay,” he echoes. He steps forward like he’s going to lean in for a kiss, but changes his mind halfway down. “You know,” he says from the doorway, “life doesn’t stop just because you do something new. Bills and kids and boyfriends—we’re all still here. We want you, too.”

Quinn cocks her head and frowns. “You’re more than just a boyfriend, Noah.”

He just smiles, nodding once. “Sure.”

/

Noah doesn’t stay out as late as Quinn is sure he planned to. It might have something to do with the fact that she picked up Beth from her friend’s house, grabbed some of Noah’s favorite tacos on the way home, and texted him a promise to finally sit through _Wreck-It Ralph_ without making some sarcastic comment.

(Quinn is an intelligent person. She is a literate person, in almost every sense of the word. She loves films. She loves foreign films and action films and rude comedies and she appreciates animated movies. But, like Santana’s utter hatred of country music or Rachel’s secret love of every reality show ever made, Quinn just doesn’t get video games.

Sure, she’s played Tetris in class more times than she can count, and Noah’s tried to explain Halo to her at least six times, but she just doesn’t see the appeal. It’s the ones with missions or quests or actual plots that get her—the players are tricked into thinking they can change the story. They get sucked into the characters and care about them and then inevitably something goes wrong. Those choices the players think they have, they’re finite and inadequate. It isn’t choosing if you can’t break the rules.

Noah tries to tell her that books do the same thing, but books aren’t as deceptive. They have one path and you don’t have any choice but to follow it.

Books don’t make you think you can change the ending.)

But she watches _Wreck-It Ralph_ and eats greasy Mexican food and tries not to cry during at least three different parts. She doesn’t succeed, but at least she tries. She laughs when Noah says that Sergeant Calhoun sounds a lot like Coach Sylvester, and she laughs again when Beth asks who that is.

“She’s the reason you’re not going to school in Lima, honey,” is all she says.

She and Noah tuck Beth into bed together, and when Quinn falls asleep, she sleeps more soundly than she has in weeks.

/

Quinn has always known that Rachel loves theater. All you had to do at McKinley was walk past her in the hallway and you’d know how much Rachel loves theater. What Quinn didn’t know was how much Rachel believed in all the theater superstitions and traditions. She won’t whistle in a theater; she won’t wish anyone good luck; and she definitely doesn’t ever talk about The Scottish Play (which Quinn finds extra funny because Rachel couldn’t pull off Shakespeare even if she were allowed to sing it.)

But Quinn learns all of this when Rachel decides to start some traditions of her own because “this is the play that’s going to make me, Quinn.” Quinn just laughs and shakes her head and lets Rachel be Rachel, and so the very first casting dinner is born. They’ll do it at least twice more, once they finally cast Jimmy and Lester, but it feels right to start with Santana. Somehow Quinn thinks this whole thing started with Santana five years ago.

They go out to a local dive, the kind that serves giant slices of pizza with bottomless soda and free garlic bread because all the wait-staff are in love with Beth. Mike and Santana share a pizza and talk about the limits of her dancing (Quinn overhears Mike say that there aren’t as many as she thinks); Quinn and Rachel discuss their glacial progress; Noah chats with Jeff, whom everyone had insisted on inviting, about some really crucial basketball game. Beth sits at the head of the table and draws on the paper over the tablecloth. Someone interrupts once a minute to ask her what that orange thing is, or to tell her how pretty her horse is.

It’s a night that makes them feel like what they are—adults with the whole world in front of them.

Halfway into a second pizza and four baskets of garlic bread down, Rachel stands up. Everyone except for Jeff groans.

“What?” he asks, looking at Quinn and Noah.

“Speech,” everyone simultaneously explains. There is no vigor, like when you beg for a speech at a wedding or someone’s birthday. There is only resignation.

Jeff glances around the table again. “She can make a speech if she wants to,” he finally says, finishing off the last of his beer.

“Thank you, Jeffrey,” Rachel beams. Jeff grins back. She clears her throat and Quinn props her head on her hand, settling in. “I’ll try not to keep this too long, seeing as most of you have stopped listening already. I just want to say how much this play means to Quinn and me—I won’t speak for Mike, though I hope he feels just as invested.” Mike tips his slice of pizza and smiles, mouth full of cheese. “It may take longer than we’d like for it to come to fruition, but I’m glad for every part of the process, and I’m so incredibly pleased that we’ve found our Billie.” Rachel turns to Santana now, and Quinn has to laugh at how much Santana is trying not to blush. “You might have fought it for a while, but I am confident that no one else could play this role as well as you will. And when we get funded—because we _will_ —you, Santana Lopez, are going to be all anyone in the theater world wants to talk about.”

“Quick, I might have a heart attack—Rachel wants Broadway to talk about someone other than her?” Santana retorts.

“Oh, I am already making my connections, Santana. I suppose I could share the spotlight.”

“There’s the Rachel I know.”

“And love.”

“Mike, pepperoni me. I need something with a little less cheese than this girl.”

“Santana!”

/

“You can handle a weekend without me, Rachel.”

“This is a perfect time for a team meeting or something, Quinn. We can really start to make this a more cohesive play now that we have the first principal role.”

“ _Or_ you could listen to Santana when she makes song suggestions because they’re usually pretty good.”

Rachel hands Quinn a plate to dry, complete with an exasperated glance. “Santana has very particular ideas about things—”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“—and she doesn’t know what will work narratively, or which songs will captivate the audience.”

“Which is where you come in. Teach her.”

“Quinn.”

Quinn puts down her towel and places the plate in the drying rack. “Rach, she has good instincts. You can hone them like some Jewish Broadway Jedi.” Rachel narrows her eyes skeptically. “You remember all those sad songs you wanted her to sing in high school? Because you were convinced that _the pain of her personal drama would translate perfectly into song_?”

“I was young and impressionable and perhaps a little misguided,” Rachel defends.

“Yeah, well, now you have a whole catalogue of sad songs to make her sing, so go crazy.”

Rachel widens her eyes and Quinn suddenly remembers how easy it is for Rachel to go crazy. She immediately regrets suggesting it.

“These dishes were already clean, by the way,” she points out.

“There is no such thing as too clean, Quinn.”

“Is that what drew you to Finn?”

“Do you think Santana will let me coach her?”

“I think you should try really hard not to let her kill you while I’m gone.”

/

Beth is in bed when Quinn leaves Rachel’s apartment. Quinn grabs a glass of water from the kitchen; collects Noah’s favorite shirt from where he always leaves it on the back of the couch; sneaks into Beth’s room and gives her a goodnight kiss, even though she’s already asleep. Her favorite stuffed animal, a hippo that Quinn’s mom bought two days after Beth was born, is hanging precariously off the edge of the bed. Quinn smiles and gently tucks it back under the covers.

“I swear, Tater’s on the floor every time I wake her up,” Noah murmurs from the doorway.

Quinn smiles and follows him out of the room, taking care not to disturb Beth. “All kids are restless sleepers.”

Noah nudges her shoulder as they walk to bed. “I think this one might have got it from her mom.”

“Hey, I am a _model_ sleeper.”

“Babe, you’re a giant bed-hog. And you kick.”

“Then I’m flattered you’ve put up with my wayward limbs and stuck around for so long. Here.” She throws him his shirt, sets down her water on the nightstand, and goes into the bathroom to wash her face.

Quinn has always liked the monotony of her nightly ritual. Wash her face, brush her teeth, take off the wears of the day—it’s all so refreshing. She thinks that if she could splash her face with water after encountering every new impossible problem, she wouldn’t feel so stressed. The last time she voiced that to Noah, he hung a spray bottle around her neck.

She’d wanted to be annoyed, but mostly she couldn’t stop laughing.

Noah is waiting for her in bed when she’s done. He smiles and turns off his iPad. It’s the surest sign that he wants to talk. Quinn just wants to sleep.

“Hey,” he says as she slides into bed.

“Hey.”

“You know I’m sticking around for a lot longer, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, you really know it? I’m not bugging you to get married because you’re Quinn Fabray from high school and Puckzilla just wants some love.”

Quinn chuckles. “I really know, Noah.” She takes a sip of her water and snuggles into his chest. He is warm and there is a spot of his favorite shirt that always smells like her shampoo. This is Quinn’s favorite shirt, too. “Look, maybe we can do family nights or something. No work, no plays, just you, me, and Beth.”

Noah sighs and brushes away the hair that falls over her face. “Family shouldn’t be something that you have to schedule.”

“I know. But it’s a schedule that I can promise to stick to.”

“Okay,” Noah finally says. He kisses her forehead and it’s like splashing her face with water a dozen times. Quinn is calmed. “Love you, babe.” He turns out the light.

“I love you too, Noah.”


End file.
